


Concrete Pine Trees

by Bounteous



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Anxiety Disorder, Ash Lynx Lives, Ash Lynx's Daughter, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Gang Violence, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mentions of Ash Lynx's Past, Mild Smut, Original Character Death(s), Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29254473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bounteous/pseuds/Bounteous
Summary: The destruction of Banana Fish, as well as the Corsican mafia, did not dissolve the teenage street gangs of New York City. Neither did the eventual disappearance of Ash Lynx. His exploits became legends, and his legacy is now carried on by his daughter, Enora Okumura-Callenreese under the alias ‘Nora Lynx’. Much like Ash’s former rival, Frederick Arthur, another gang under the rule of the mysterious ‘Mitsu’ is attempting to take over all of Manhattan. Through horrifying trials and unceasing violence, it is up to Enora and her allies to stop them as Enora battles the morality within herself.
Relationships: Ash Lynx/Okumura Eiji, Ibe Akira/Sing Soo-Ling, Max Lobo/Jessica Randy
Comments: 21
Kudos: 27





	1. The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will be separated into scenes that have been given a specific Banana Fish soundtrack piece to go with it. I hope you enjoy!

“Human beings can be awful cruel to one another.” -Mark Twain, _The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn_

* * *

 ******i. _(Skip Soundtrack)_**

_4 years earlier_

Otosan always gets so absorbed when he’s taking pictures; like he gets lost in his own world within that little screen. He takes pictures of everything all the time—New York, its people, random aesthetically-pleasing objects, but he likes taking pictures of me and dad most of all. Especially when we aren’t paying attention.

He says our golden hair shines beautifully in the sunlight, framing our pale faces with “playful domesticity”...whatever that means. Though, he says his favorite thing is comparing our brilliant green eyes. Jade versus pine. Eyes like shimmering gemstones versus eyes like dark woods. 

Dad will always notice, always bring a finger to his lips with that glint as we make eye contact. Otosan, always too focused, will be messing with his camera, tongue poking out of his mouth when we attack. I laugh because he always squeaks in surprise with either arm pinned by our bodies hugging the life out of him. Then they kiss and I pretend to puke, but it’s actually cute and I really hope someone could love me as much as they love each other one day.

They assure me someone will. That I have much to offer and more. But dad says I’m only thirteen and I should focus on being a kid. He always says things like that.

Maybe he says those things because I’m doing it wrong. I don’t have many friends. I don’t talk much in school. I like being by myself and I’m not unhappy, but maybe I should get friends so dad will stop. Maybe he thinks I’m feeling left out or something. I just don’t like talking much, really. Otosan tells me that it's called being shy and it’s okay.

It makes me mad, too, when dad brings it up. I don’t know how I’m supposed to make friends if he won’t let me go anywhere at all. Other kids in my grade always talk about going to the mall or taking the subway by themselves. Dad never lets me go anywhere without him. I always ask otosan why, but he just gives me a funny look before explaining that dad is just protective. 

I think he just doesn’t trust me. But it’s whatever. He’s not here right now because he insisted he needed to finish an article he was working on for grandpa Max. Told us he’d meet us at the park if he ever finishes in time. That always means he won’t. 

There’s never much to do other than sit and watch otosan work, but I enjoy the peacefulness. Sometimes we’ll wander around and I’ll helpfully point out some things I think he’d find pretty. It’s not hard. He finds everything pretty. Other times I’ll wander around on my own, lost in my thoughts or people-watching, though I never stray too far. 

Sometimes I like to think it’d be really easy to run away at times like these. Otosan is so intent on finding the perfect setting for those tulips swaying in the breeze, the gentle waves up the pond, a squirrel scuttling up a tree. I could walk away, take my time even, and he probably wouldn’t notice until an hour later or something that I’m even missing.

This is how I know he trusts me more.

I won’t run away, though, I promise. I’d miss them too much. And they’d probably argue. Dad would yell at otosan for losing me so easily and otosan would cry in frustration and failure. And then dad would cry because he’d feel bad for making otosan cry. They cry about a lot of things, but they rarely fight. 

Otosan really wanted to capture the blooming scenery of spring despite the sudden wind frosting the tips of our eyelashes and whipping our cheeks red. It certainly doesn’t look as cold as it feels. We’d wrapped ourselves in matching scarves because otosan really enjoys doing cheesy stuff like that and left dad typing away on his laptop, those old glasses perched on his nose. 

Dad always makes me hold his hand when we walk the bustling streets, claiming he didn’t want to lose me. Otosan doesn’t make me, but I do it anyway because if dad is right about anything, it’s that otosan’s hands are always warm. I dragged him to our favorite Thai place, the one in a tiny pocket of authentic restaurants with a tiny window and even tinier bar, and we’d sat there eating our spicy noodles bundled up tight.

Today is a normal day like any other, but I think I need to walk around some and get feeling back into my fingers and toes. Unfortunately, this second wave of winter weather hasn’t deterred people from continuing their daily routines. Some lady jogs past me in skin-tight clothing with three huge dogs pulling at their leashes. A couple walks hand-in-hand, smiling lovingly at each other. An old man throws pieces of his food to the pigeons. I heard dad sigh, “It’s all so mundane,” once when I was younger. I know what it means now, but I don’t know why he’d said it so...exhausted. 

There’s a playground I like to swing at sometimes, but when I get there it’s already crawling with snot-nosed toddlers and screaming children. 

“You don’t wanna go over there either, huh?”

I spin around in my tracks, startled. There stands a kid around my age with the shaggiest mop of black hair I’ve ever seen. Blue eyes stare at me in amusement. I give him a once-over, wary of this stranger. Dad always warned me to be careful with people I didn’t know. And, sometimes, people I did. 

But this kid looks kind of harmless. And ragged. His clothes are stretched and holey, his hands are covered in dirt, and one of his shoes opens with a flap whenever he flexes his foot. Street kids can be dangerous, dad told me, but I don’t know why I can’t imagine this one hurting a fly. 

“No, I’m not really good with people. Is that why you don’t want to?”

He smiles with yellow teeth, but it’s a contagious smile and I wonder if making friends could always be this easy. “Nah, I don’t mind people so much. It’s them who mind me.”

I tilt my head, confused, and ask, “What do you mean?”

“I’m homeless. And I look it, too.” He shrugs, seemingly unbothered, and his collarbones peek out through tan, freckled skin. “They think I’m gonna ask ‘em for change or act crazy on drugs or somethin’.”

Well, people are just mean and judgmental. Although, if I’m being honest with myself, dad would probably brutally interrogate this kid if he was here right now. Otosan would probably give him whatever he asked. I think I’ll just stick to getting to know him some more. I mean, I don’t have anything to offer, anyway. Would he find it offensive if I tried?

“If you went over there, do you think they’d leave?” I suggest. I really would like to swing, to be honest.

Shaggy-hair laughs, eyes glinting in that same mischievous way dad’s do, and replies, “Probably. We would have the whole playground to ourselves.” He leans in conspiratorially, hand cupping the side of his mouth. “Should I pretend I’m jacked up on crack or somethin’?”

I smirk, enjoying this scheming between us. “Whatever makes them leave fastest.”

I stand back and watch him saddle up to a group of mothers conversing and giggling with gossip, ruffling up his hair and smearing some more dirt across his cheeks. Stumbles and stutters asking them for change, a dollar, “anything, miss, please,” and falls to his ashy knees beneath them. I think one of them is about to and I start to feel kind of bad, but then Shaggy-hair grabs onto her skirt. I have to hide my snickering behind my stiff fingers at her shriek of horror. 

He turns to me and bows dramatically, pretending to flick the tail of his invisible tuxedo. “Tada!” he exclaims, arms splayed out beneath a baggy jacket. “If you ever require my services again just ask around for Benny.”

He swings himself up onto the blue monkey bars, bare hands wrapped around freezing poles, and hangs upside down without a care in the world. Part of me wonders where this kid—Benny—came from? What made him so fun and carefree? How did he end up here today, of all places, to coincidentally change my life forever? I wouldn’t be so shy having him around at school, but I don’t think he even goes to one.

“I’ll be sure to do that,” I reply, walking to the swings and swaying lazily. I pause before remembering I haven’t even introduced myself yet. “Oh, uh, sorry, I’m Enora...by the way.” I sound lame and awkward and hope I haven’t just ruined my chance at making my first real friend. 

I wish I was like otosan sometimes; he makes friends everywhere he goes. I try to be like him, nice and polite and “engaging”, but then I just get too scared, frightened. Dad tells me it’s okay, that he used to be like that too, that he’s still like that now. He sat me down one day, told me that fear probably won’t ever go away, but one day I’ll conquer it and he’d throw me the biggest party in celebration. That was when I was eight, but I still kind of want that party. 

“‘Enora’, huh?” Benny says, “Weird, I like it.”

That makes me smile. “Thanks, it means ‘honor’ or something like that.”

Benny swings back down from the bars and takes the open spot next to me. “Is that why your parents named you it?”

“I don’t think so.”

We both laugh at the absurdity, our antics, ourselves. Dad’s name means ‘dawn’ and I think that’s prettier than mine. I was never given a middle name, either, but dad calls me ‘Pine’ so we can match. Enora Pine Okumura-Callenreese. What a strange name, but I love it.

Benny and I talk and joke, cracking up in between bouts of breathlessness. Pretty soon, I forget all about otosan and his obsession with photography even when it’s not work-related. Is this what dad meant about conquering my fear? I’d like to invite Benny to the party.

“Do you wanna come meet my friends?” Benny suggests, drawing aimless circles in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. “I think you’d fit right in.”

I worry about my parents and all the things they warned me about. I worry about otosan and all the times I’d imagined running away. But I want to. If any of Benny’s friends are just like him, I really want to meet them. I’d finally have myself a group to belong to. And dad would finally think I’m grown. 

Despite the fear and the worry, I nod and agree,” Sure.”

He takes me along with him down dirt paths and the chain-link fence separating grass from sidewalk and out onto the busy streets. The further we stray from otosan, the more I regret my decision. I hope we don’t get lost. The bad thing about Benny, though he makes up for it with his outgoing personality, is he is very average-looking. That’s how I end up spinning in circles amid a crowd of boring people, unable to find my new friend. 

Or my way back.

I should have asked him to hold my hand, but I was too embarrassed. Are these people getting closer? Why does it feel like they’re surrounding me? Suffocating me? My chest hurts the same as it does before I can’t breathe. I don’t want to not breathe. Otosan and dad always help me when that happens, but they’re not here now. What if I die out here because my lungs don’t get enough air?

Someone shoves me out of the way and I fall into a dirty puddle down an alley. It hurt, but at least I can focus again. On the cold wetness seeping into my jeans. On the sharp pain shooting up my hands and knees. On the sound of voices further up the way. Wait, is that Benny’s voice? Benny!

I follow them excitedly and turn the corner before skidding to a stop. I’ve found Benny backed into the brick of some building surrounded by three very intimidating older boys. I get the sudden feeling I shouldn’t be here, but I can’t just leave Benny. So I hide myself behind the wall, watching this—what’s the word I learned in English? Foreboding?—event unfold. Dad calls it my sixth sense, tells me I must have picked it up from him. Says I should hold onto it, “fine-tune” it.

They’re saying things I don’t understand, things that make it seem like Benny’s the bad guy. “Benny isn’t bad!” I almost cry out, but I slap my hand to my mouth and keep silent. Those are the guys dad warned me about. If he were here, they’d be beaten to a pulp. I wish I could be like him instead of being too afraid, hiding myself from view. I can throw a good punch, use my size to my advantage.

But these guys have knives that flick to life with horrible echoes, closing in on Benny’s shrinking form.

And all I can do is watch in horror as two hold his arms down with fierce grips and psycho grins while the other sinks his knife into Benny’s stomach, carving out red lettering. My eyes close, my insides twist, but it only makes Benny’s screams louder, more desperate. Why isn’t anybody helping? How can nobody hear this? Are they just ignoring it? How could they?

Then the screams abruptly stop. I open my eyes slowly, delaying nothing, and gasp through a spray of hot tears. I will never be able to forget that gash across his neck, leaking gallons of blood all over his clothes, the ground, pooling pink with the water. 

I sprint away, choking and wailing and stumbling over my feet. My breakfast is suddenly splattering onto the pavement. Some lady finds me curled up in a ball, a tiny baby held in her arms. I wish we could switch places somehow. I struggle around answers to her questions, struggle to grasp onto her hand with my shaking, struggle to walk steadily back to the park where it all started.

A blurry otosan races toward us, clearly worried and I know I’ve messed up horribly. So horribly. But I can’t help myself from falling into his arms and sobbing uncontrollably like a child. I think he thanks the lady (probably, because he preaches manners) and tries his best to console me the same way he does dad. He asks me what happened and I shake my head so hard it hurts. I can’t tell him. I don’t want to.

**ii. _(Him and Hym Soundtrack)_**

_Present time_

I purposefully leave my curtains open at night because of this. This restlessness, this sweat-soaked tossing and turning, this nightmare-induced panic squeezing at my chest. That way, when I finally, agonizingly awake, I’m not stranded in the pitch black. I stopped racing to my parents’ room, desperately trying to outrun the dredges of my unconsciousness, a long time ago. I’ve adapted, not overcome.

Tonight, like any other night, I turn to stare at the haze of neon and fluorescents pouring out onto my carpet and walls and ceiling. Unfocused. Exhausted. Floating. Wonder about the kid who vapes out the window above my own. About the swingers down the hall who eye otosan trudging up the steps with groceries loaded onto both arms. About the old lesbians below us pinching my cheeks because I remind them of their younger selves. 

I just let my mind run wild until it stops running at all. 

Sometimes I’ll lie awake, a corpse unexamined, until morning streaks across my blankets. Other times I’ll sit up, stretch, pace impatiently around the spots on my floor that don’t creak. Tonight, the summer’s heat creeps through the brick and breathes uncomfortably up the back of my neck, and I find myself in need of a glass of water. Or maybe just ice.

I slip out of my room quietly, shushing Buddy asleep at the foot of my bed, and sneak down the hall on silent, practiced toes. Even with the AC running on high and all the ceiling fans squeaking with every aggressive spin, my skin still feels so sticky that my feet keep picking up dog hair. 

The apartment is filled with a myriad of noises and I like that I’m not one of them. To be unseen and unheard—it’s where I’m most comfortable. Our cabinet opens with a creak, glasses clink when I grab one, and our fridge dispenser makes a distinct hum when pouring water. But my feet swish across the carpet like it’s a ghost performing these mundane actions, not me.

“Why are you awake at four in the morning?”

I jump, choking on my sip and nearly dropping the glass from my hand. “Fuck! Dad, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Those eyes are filled with mirth as he snickers at successfully scaring me, but he looks as disheveled as I feel. Shirtless with pants he must have just lazily slipped on and a nest of untamed yellow flying about his head. And the bags under his eyes—we’re similar in more ways than people know and I hate it. 

The smile drops from his lips, seriousness pouring from his mouth when he asks, “Seriously, though, why are you awake?”

Benny haunts my memories every single time I close my eyes, but I never told either of them the truth. I’m not about to now. 

“I’m a teenager and it’s summer break,” I explain instead, trying the snarky seventeen-year-old approach. 

These tactics only sometimes work with dad, but I just think he can’t be bothered to actively care about my real reasoning when he doesn’t push. Fair enough, I guess, otosan is enough of a handful already.

I raise an eyebrow, taking a calmer sip of my water than was allowed previously. “And what are you doing up at four, then?”

“Couldn’t sleep either.” He shrugs, playfully shoving me out of the way to grab his own glass. 

The nightmares in which dad awakes without screaming are the worst for him. Otosan isn’t given a cue to wake up and comfort him and, as dad has never unlearned, he quietly suffers through the aftereffects himself. Suppose our troubles have aligned for tonight, how familial of us. This is why otosan calls us “too independent.”

However, that simple, enigmatic answer means dad is entirely aware I’m lying. I can only hope he doesn’t push because I genuinely do not have the energy to mask myself right now. With that, I down the rest of my drink like a shot of tequila without the burn.

“C’mon,” he says, putting a comforting arm around me, “let’s lay on the couch.”

Laying my head in dad’s lap with his fingers carding through my hair always makes me feel so small and vulnerable. It’s arguably one of my most favorite places in the whole world. I could almost fall asleep peacefully here. 

We lay together in serene silence, simply enjoying the atmosphere we’ve created within this tiny bubble of familiarity and each other. We may argue frequently, but I can safely say it’s only because we love each other so fiercely and unconditionally. I know my dad and I know he’ll always have my back even if he wants to wring my neck for never telling him where I am or what I’m doing,

“I don’t know,” I sigh, burrowing further into dad’s thigh, “I’m just not really that excited for senior year.”

Those hands massaging my scalp never cease. “Why? It’s your last year and then you’ll be free forever.”

“That’s exactly why I’m nervous. Senior year means applying for college, scholarships, potentially moving away from you depending on where I go. It’s all so overwhelming and I don’t even know what I wanna fucking do!”

He squeezes me in his arms, squeezing the building anxiety out of me, but jokes, “Did you just admit you like being stuck with me?”

“No, I was talking about otosan. I actually don’t give a shit about you.” Dad bursts out laughing and I have to shush him while attempting to keep myself collected. “Shush, he’s gonna wake up if you keep being so damn loud.”

“No, he’s definitely gonna wake up and give us hell if you keep talking like that. And I’m gonna have his wrath for a week because you definitely learned it from me.”

“If he wakes up, it’s gonna be because you left him all alone and here we are cuddling without him.”

Dad may be the stricter parent, but this kind of bantering is something special between us. Otasan may not want to admit it, and he may or may not pass out if I ever told this to him, but he often acts like obaasan—formal and stern. It’s a product of his upbringing and I don’t really mind it, but dad cares less about what I say and that’s cool.

I used to spend time comparing and contrasting them, wondering how two people could act so differently and make it work so seamlessly. That was the day I learned all cultures are vastly different and I remember making otosan sit down with me to explain how things worked in Japan because I hadn’t ever been yet. I was a very curious child, willingly opening my naivety for the world to endure. 

That naivety withered away a long time ago. I heard them talking one day, dad and otosan, about how it seemed as if I’d grown up in just a single incident. I wouldn’t have known what to say if they’d confronted me. I still wouldn’t know what to say now. A rift opened wide between us after that and I’ve been struggling to keep them oblivious to it since.

It’s why, in calm, familiar moments like these, I focus on the present. The past is irreversible and the future is unknown, but I can content myself by worrying about the now. It’s probably not a healthy coping mechanism, but I haven’t been mentally stable since I was thirteen. Oddly enough, it’s getting harder to fake sanity the older I get. 

Dad kisses the crown of my hair and asks if I want to sleep with them, but I’m seventeen so I shake my head, declining. It’s nearing five-thirty anyway, I won’t be going back to sleep.

**iii.** **_(Los Angeles Soundtrack)_ **

_The next morning_

Otosan always wakes at six for an early morning jog before cooking a large breakfast like some rich, white mom. I’m not going to say I want him to stop, though. It’s a nice wake-up, assuming I slept uninterrupted through the night, with the smell of traditional Japanese food wafting into my room, curling up my nostrils. It’s our moment to converse, just us two, while dad snores away the rest of the morning. 

It makes me feel legitimately awful that I have to skip Natto Day because business calls. 

Shower, jeans, a random shirt, and the only pair of Converse I have ever worn in my life—I’m rushing out the door, struggling to put my hair up, before doubling-back to press a quick kiss to otosan’s cheek in apology. He waves it away, telling me he’ll save me a plate for tomorrow morning. I love him. 

Manhattan isn’t glamorous like the media portrays, but it’s home and these streets are mine. I slip through the masses, ignore the stares of men not worth my time, and give a bit of change to each cup & sign I pass. The subway is packed as usual, every seat and bar taken, but I prefer leaning against the doors until they open for my stop. It’s a bit mesmerizing watching the windows rapidly shift between light and dark, kind of like me. 

People are headed to work and so am I.

At nine in the morning, the bars are closed and cleaning the previous night’s events from existence and preparing for new stories to be spoken in cadence. Hopping down a few steps into a tiny alcove, I knock on this bar’s door until someone comes to open it for me.

Justin opens up, that bright-ass smile blinding me. “You’re late, Lynx.”

“It’s New York, give me a fucking break, Boss.”

I follow him to the back, that brown hair spiked up with as much gel as he could possibly find this morning, mumbling greetings back to the few members milling about the stools and booths. Some of them playing a drunken game of pool this early. 

“Hey, Nora!”

“Nora, what’s up, girl?”

“Nora fuckin’ Lynx, how you doin’?”

And so it goes being named after a legend.

The back room is reserved for “special members-only” and I suppose I could be grateful considering I really have no reason to be invited other than a sort of round-a-bout nepotism. There’s Frankie, second-in-command and sporting that wild mess of red curls, instigating an argument between Sleuth and Moss, the overworked twins of our unofficial intelligence branch.

I talk about this gang like it’s the fucking FBI. Justin and Frankie are more like co-leaders and Sleuth and Moss (nobody knows their real names or where they even came from) are just self-taught teenage hackers. And I...have an affinity for things I should be ashamed of.

“Gangs are gettin’ wiped out all over Manhattan,” begins Justin, leaning over the table in seriousness. “Innocent kids are gettin’ killed, hideouts gettin’ ransacked. Anybody outwardly affiliated with any of the gangs are walkin’ targets.”

Frankie speaks up, “Is it the cops houndin’ us again? Maybe they’re finally crackin’ down on us. Ya know some of ‘em are violent like that, no shits or nothin’!”

Justin disagrees, “No, cops ain’t ever done shit like that before. Word on the street is a new gang is rollin’ in, tryin’ to take all us others out.”

Sitting here quietly, mulling over this revelation, pieces start to fit together like a puzzle in my head. It all sounds too familiar. That same panic, the one that never quite leaves even if I manage a normal day, creeps up my spine.

I lock eyes with Justin. “Sounds like the same one as before, you think?”

“I do.” Snaps his fingers at Sleuth and Moss. “You two, gather as much intel about this new gang as you possibly can.” Then Frankie. “I need you to meet with the other gangs and report back to me.” And back to me. “You and I are gonna reminisce a little bit.”

I said I hated reliving this past, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. This fucking gang, if it is the same as before, is going to kick my fucking ass. I can’t handle another Benny.


	2. Catch-22

"You're inches away from death every time you go on a mission. How much older can you be at your age?" -Joseph Heller,  _ Catch-22 _

* * *

**_i. (New York Soundtrack)_ **

_ 3 years earlier _

Things are going exactly the way I expected. Dad is worrying ceaselessly and otosan is debating his unreasonable concerns. So it goes and so it shall always go. Perhaps I misjudged my decision to avoid telling dad, given myself time to work him over instead. Whatever. If I’m finally old enough to get to school by myself, then I’m old enough to get to a stupid birthday party by myself. 

“It’s too far away!”

“It’s two stops more than when she goes to school.”

“She could get lost!  
“She has her phone, Aslan.”

Otosan is exasperated and dad is taut with worry. It’s a scene I’ve witnessed countless times and countless times it’s always about me. I wonder when the day will come when they begin including me in these debates instead of speaking as if I’m not here. Otosan always fights for me, and I appreciate it, but he holds back to appease dad and sometimes it doesn’t work. We are a family of stubborn bulls and I hate it.

“No, no,” I say, popping a hip out, “keep arguing. It’s not gonna make me late at all.” I’ve been standing here with my bag, hand on the door handle for fifteen minutes. I’d really like to leave at some point. 

Otosan’s head swivels toward me “You want to try that sass with me again, Enora-chan?” he scolds sharply, switching to Japanese. 

There are only three instances in which he speaks his first language: when he’s upset, when it’s just us two, and when he wants to annoy dad for forgetting everything he’d been taught when they lived in Izumo. Discipline falls under the ‘upset’ category. 

Exasperated, I exclaim, “I don’t understand how I’m supposed to become independent if dad won’t let me go anywhere alone!” This was not the time or the place I wanted to start this argument, but I’m fuming and rolling and I cannot be stopped. “The kids at school always talk about going to the mall alone whenever they want and my friends always invite me places, but I have to decline because I know you’d say no! It’s embarrassing walking around with you latched onto me all the time!”  _ You guys are only trendy because you’re gay, you’re actually not cool at all _ . I don’t say that part aloud.

I can see dad’s eyes blaze with fury, matching mine equally. “I’m so sorry I’m not a deadbeat, uncaring parent who gives zero shits where their kids go or what happens to them! I worry for your safety, Enora, and I’d feel much better just driving you there. I don’t understand your problem.”

“My problem is that you are the one who taught me—” I stop dead in my tracks, eyes widening and locking with dad’s. 

An unspoken agreement passes between us in this moment, silent messages and silent restraints. I was about to reveal some very precarious information that would have had otosan dead on the floor. I worry he can feel the tension, this second rope pulled taut between us, and that curiosity I learned from him will blossom into suspicion and anger. Just like that, all the anger and discontent dissipates, leaving us all reeling with an onslaught of whiplash and vertigo. 

“—to...not converse with strange, old men,” I finish lamely, eyeing otosan’s reaction in my peripheral vision. He appears unperturbed and I internally sigh in relief. “I’m fairly good at evading them now.”

Even after this brief moment of panic, dad’s mouth starts to open in disagreement before otosan brings a forceful and simultaneous comforting hand to his shoulder. “Be safe and have fun, Enora,” he interrupts with a smile my way, “We love you.”

I return it, elated. “Thanks, otosan.”

It’s only after I’ve sat myself down on the musty, orange and yellow patterned seats of the subway do I start to feel guilty. I didn’t think they’d fall for it, it was a blatant lie. Maybe they were just ecstatic and relieved to hear I’d finally found some legitimate friends to hang with. I haven’t. There is no birthday party, and even if there was, I would definitely not have willingly attended. 

I needed an excuse to visit Loisaida, a fair bit further from home in Tribeca and lot bit further than either of my parents think I’m going.

Not a single person has spoken to me or even acknowledged my insignificant existence the entire ride, but the anxiety tightens in my chest all the same when I hear my stop called overhead. What am I doing? Why am I doing this? I’m in over my head. What can a fourteen-year-old girl like me even do?

It’s been over a year, I need answers. Closure. I don’t know...something to give me peace of mind.

These streets are unfamiliar, maze-like, lurking with hidden darkness and violence that prey on the innocent. That would be me. And here I am willingly giving myself up. I must look so lost to these people—I don’t if I feel better about the fact nobody is giving me a lick of attention or worse. 

I don’t even know what I’m doing, I’m out of my element. Should I just walk up to the first group of scary-looking teenagers I find? Should I just wait down some crusty alley until someone approaches me? Honestly, I have to laugh at myself. This is a direct violation of everything my parents ever taught me. These kids are the exact crowd dad always warned me to avoid, but now I’m beginning to question why.

They’re just struggling to survive, taking the only chances they’ve been given in life. I’m sure none of them asked to be born with absent parents or no money or abuse left and right. Nobody gives a damn about them. Maybe if they did, they’d put their knives down. But what do I know? I’m just a juvenile girl who’s never ventured out on her own before. My opinions don’t matter in the least. 

It doesn’t matter that I didn’t even know what a family was until I was six. 

The first two groups I come across, acting like fools or how teenagers like them act on a daily basis, and I chicken out. It makes me nervous that I can’t find a single person the same age as me. Or. at the very least, someone who looks like they aren’t old enough to attend college. I’ve been told I look and act older than I am, but I suppose living in the streets like this really does mature kids.

I finally work up the nerve on a group of rascals zig-zagging their way around cars and unpaid parking meters, their shouts like shrill cries of war. But their answers are a chorus of shrugged shoulders, cracks in an old sidewalk. Others tell me the same thing; repeated “I don’t know”, directions toward someone who might, rinse & repeat. 

Across from me, sitting on some steps and passing around a vape, is a group of girls and the estrogen comforts me immensely, although I really shouldn’t trust them just because of female solidarity. I’ve never felt so small in my entire life, standing here below slit pupils, the ominous echo of bubblegum popping, and the candy-smelling cloud fogging my vision, feeling the judgment suffocating my airways. 

I know I don’t look like I belong in Upper Manhattan, but maybe this whole gang thing works with everyone knowing everyone’s name. And they’ve never seen my face around here before. I should just go back, I’m getting nowhere at this pace. It was just wishful thinking, anyway.

I apologize and dart away before they can speak my demise, intent on heading back to the station I came from. Dejected, though, I am. Next thing I know, I’m being pulled down an alley and everything dad ever told me comes rushing through my head and all I’m left with is the admittance that this was reckless and stupid of me. 

“Why’ve you been asking around for Benny?”

Those words are harsh, spat directly into my face cowering against the brick. My first thought is that this kid looks far too innocent to be asking questions like that. My second is that, regardless of my current situation, I’ve finally found concrete evidence of Benny’s existence. Part of me was beginning to believe my over-active brain had imagined the whole thing.

I gulp nervously, determinedly, answering, “Benny Wilcox, right? We were friends.”

Funny how this boy manages to meet every checkmark of attractivity I’ve heard all the girls at school talk about. The kind they fantasize knocking on their door, corsage in hand, limo out front, ready for prom. As if he’s thought about any of that stuff. It makes me wonder how useful his charming smile can be.

“‘Were?’ So you’re aware he’s been missing for over a year? And he never once mentioned someone like you.” The implication, the assumption, is palpable enough to choke on. 

And my own assumptions had been wrong. I didn’t realize I’d have to be the one to tell them of Benny’s death, or how hard even thinking the words would be. My mind is spiraling with the last image I ever had of him...bleeding out, throat slashed, eyes vacant.

“Benny’s dead,” I whisper, unsure he can even hear me. My throat feels raw and swollen.

Whoever this boy is, he suddenly looks much younger at my revelation. And angry. “How the hell do you know that?” But he doesn’t touch me.

“Because I saw it happen. Three guys cornered him, slit his throat.” I almost sob at the last word, my vision blurring with unshed tears. I can’t tell if it's from sadness or trauma. “Nobody ever found his body?”

Though he moves away from me to fall back against the opposite wall, I still feel constricted, closed-in. It hurts to know Benny just became another statistic. And it hurts, even more, to know I did absolutely nothing to stop it.

“Police probably picked him up first. They don’t give two shits about kids like us. Find us dead on the streets, call it an unfortunate accident, and move on without investigation. I mean, who’s gonna mourn us, right?” he says, running a hand over his face. His demeanor is shifting, switching, pacing back and forth down a dark alley.

I don’t know how to respond. It’s not fair. None of this is fair. But it’s the truth. It’s life. It’s how things work for people with no lot in life. Nobody cares. 

Eventually, he gathers himself better than I ever could and says, “Thank you for letting me know. I’m sure the others will be grateful, too.” He holds out a calloused, friendly hand. “Name’s Justin.”

I eye it warily, upset and still cautious. He did shove me against a wall. “Nora,” I reply, keeping to myself.

The hand drops, though Justin appears unfazed. He only smiles sadly and informs, “A friend of Benny’s is a friend of mine.”

**_ii. (Clue Collecting Soundtrack)_ **

_ Present time _

I worry for Frankie, often. She’s loyal, reliable, and damn good with a knife in between dexterous fingers. However, she’s a tad too keen on sticking those knives where the sun doesn’t shine. She likes to joke she’d physically manifested her hair to grow that way with her wild streak and fiery attitude as a child. We all know she just uses that as an excuse to not be called borderline psychotic, and we let her.

In a way, we all are, too.

I just worry now because we aren’t out here scoping the territory to incite a fight, we’re merely attempting to gather some scrap of intel on this dangerous and, evidently, deadly gang. They’ve claimed no visible or prominent terf—no home base, no hideouts, no corner of so-and-so where they frequent. It’s like they’re poltergeists, phasing through walls and apparating at will to wreak havoc wherever they please.

They exhibit the same behavior as the gang from years ago. And gangs don’t just die out here. People remember, hate, let legacies live on and on. It’s new kids, old ideals. Nothing ever changes. Justin, I, and the rest of the gang only have this bit of information to go on, unfortunately. He’s making us dig hard and fast. 

We both are desperate to prevent a repeat. But people are nothing if not vindictive.

“Why can’t we all just live in harmony, man?” Frankie complains, hands stretched behind her head. 

You get used to walking living in big cities, but two hours of navigating the same damn streets become a little excessive and extremely irritating. Though I like her, Frankie also never shuts the fuck up.

“You sound like a hippie.”

She shoots me with her icy blue glare, those freckles pouring over her cheeks like sunbursts. “I just don’t get the big deal with wantin’ to lead all the gangs as one. We can barely get ‘em to listen as is.” She scoffs, unconvinced of the imminent danger lurking ahead. “Whoever’s tryin’ this shit better be ready to parent rather than lead, I’m just sayin’.”

I suppose she is kind of right. People don’t give enough credit to these kids for doing what they do, but, when it comes down to it, they are still just kids. Look at me, acting like I’m not just as young. It’s a strange contradiction; they fight and bare their teeth, skin bristling, but it’s in a fear only a child could have. They act like they’ve been doing this shit for years, but what are years to someone who’s only thirteen, fourteen, barely hanging on to fifteen?

And what am I doing here? Someone who still has a home and loving parents to go back to every night? Exerting a legacy that’s not mine and offering services I shouldn’t have. I do it because I care, but is that enough at this point? Or is it now even more reason to continue?

Maybe I should take a philosophy class if I ever work up the nerve to apply to college. It just makes me feel awful because this is a chance none of these kids will ever have. Not that they’re even aware I have it.

I’m about to sigh for the hundredth time, but suck in that breath before it even has a chance to exist. My arm shoots out, stopping Frankie in her relaxed tracks, and nod toward the group of guys a few feet ahead of us. I’ve never seen them before. Rarely do members of other gangs go hanging around other territory just for fun.

They haven’t noticed us yet, so I yank Frankie behind me to tail them as they round a street corner. Nothing being said is worth a damn, but it’s not as if I have to strain my ears to listen to their ridiculous shouts and pretentiousness. Whoever these particular guys are, they aren’t exactly keeping the lid tight.

Ducking behind cars, newsstands, stairs—we follow them aimlessly until Frankie accidentally kicks a loose rock as we dive into the nearest alley. It skids across the ground, ear-splittingly, in slow motion and all conversation ceases. I muster as much fury as I can into my pointed stare at her, to which she simply rolls her eyes. 

Our chests are still, silent, waiting in sweat-dripping anticipation.

“C’mon,” one of them says slowly, cautiously, “we gotta get back to Boss.”

“Yeah, Mitsu don’t take no crap—ow! What the hell, man?”

“Shut your mouth!”

Their voices eventually fade and only then do we dare to exhale before smirking at each other. Mitsu, huh? All Sleuth and Moss need is a name to uncover some nasty truths. 

“Mitsu? What a strange name.”

“It’s also the Japanese word for ‘three’,” I inform. Nobody knows I can speak fluent Japanese, but knowing foreign numbers isn’t that weird.

“Wait, so their boss’s name is ‘Three’?”

“No, it can be a name.”

“That happens to mean three?”

“No! Oh my God…”

**iii.** **_(Resistance Soundtrack)_ **

_ Later that night _

Something uneasy twists in my gut as I head up the stairs toward home, and it’s not the busted elevator acting like some forewarning in those stupid crime dramas. I always use the stairs. No notifications on my phone, either. Nobody’s following me, I don’t think. Dad says my intuition is a good thing, but sometimes I still can’t tell what the hell is wrong until something is. What good is knowing something bad is going to happen if you can’t do anything about it?

It’s not until I’ve stepped through the door, taken off my shoes, and turned around that I finally understand.

Dad looks pissed. “Where the hell have you been?” he demands, freezing me in place with that stone-cold glare. 

Dinner is boiling on the stove, filling up the room with a starchy smell. It isn’t even eight, yet, what’s his fucking problem? He wanted me to get friends, go out, have fun, be a normal fucking teenager? But now that I’m practically acting on my limited freedom, he suddenly wants to pull me back in? Nevermind that I’m straight-up lying to his face every single time he asks where I’ve been, I don’t think I’ve given him reason to be as concerned as he is.

My eyes float to otosan standing at the kitchen counter chopping up vegetables, his mouth downturned, frowning, as if to say he tried and he’s sorry. 

I answer with narrowed lids, voice clipped, “Checking out some new stock at an art shop.”

“All day?”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You didn’t think to text either one of us at all today?”

“I told otosan this morning when I left.” Not where I was going, but he was aware I was leaving. Can’t that be enough?

Speaking of otosan, he purposely moves between us with the boiling bot in hand, setting it in the middle of the table. Three plates have been set out, various sides and snacks placed around for grabbing. A real family dinner, one we have almost every night. Sometimes he’ll be held up at a shoot and dad and I will order some take-out or delivery. Or dad will be stuck in one of his moods, unable to be deterred from that line he’s been on for hours and he’ll completely miss supper. 

In spite of all the shit they don’t even know going on in my life, I always manage to be present. 

“Aslan,” he starts, “she is home safe and sound, so can we please enjoy a nice—” but is quickly cut off.

“You didn’t tell him where,” dad grinds out, almost snapping. His arms don’t unfold themselves. Instead, his knuckles appear to be grasping harder.

“He didn’t ask,” I quip back, exhausted. “Is it seriously necessary for me to text you where I am and what I’m doing at all hours?”\

“Yes.” And he means it.

“You are ridiculous.”

I don’t even bother giving him the satisfaction to spew more nonsense, simply sprint to my room and slam the door as hard as possible so they can know how angry I am. He’s yelling, shouting my name, banging on my door until otosan pulls him away, murmuring something about letting me “cool down.”

I’ll probably sneak out there later to grab leftovers. Or the plate otosan will inevitably make for me. This isn’t a rare occurrence. Dad spouts bullshit, I spout legitimate disputes, we yell and yell and yell, and then I isolate myself in my room to leave dad drowning in the spiral of guilt as is typical of him. Though, he never bothers to make amends. We push it under the metaphorical rug and move on. That rug must be a thousand feet high by now.

I’m still fuming, so I call the one person I know who will never tire of my complaints. Or, at least, never tell me.

“Let me guess: your dad pissed you off again with some ‘nonsensical bullshit’, right?” Raven answers, tone matter-of-fact.

“Even otosan can’t get through to him that I am practically an adult! I don’t need to be sending him a text every thirty minutes, letting him know where I am and what I’m doing. It’s ridiculous!”

“Aw, poor baby, having parents who care for you.”

I frown. “You’re my girlfriend, you’re supposed to have more sympathy, less sarcasm.”

I lie back on my unmade bed, basking in the strip of late afternoon light slicing my bedroom into two halves of light and darkness. My head hangs off the edge, the world turning into a dizzying upside down. 

One time, in middle school, our counselor initiated a series of psychological tests for “mental awareness day” and one of those was the Rorschach test. I had asked to take home a few of the inkblots because I found them fascinating for some reason, and now they’re pinned up along my wall in an abstract pattern. Looking at them like this makes me wonder how psychologists know which way is right-side up. 

It would vastly change someone’s answer and, ultimately, their analysis. What if it’s the insane ones locking up the sane ones? Which one would I be classified as?

Raven would tell me it doesn’t matter. That to classify the world between two things is a disrespect to the beautiful variety surrounding us. There is diversity in unity, because how could we be one without accepting all? 

I don’t know how much I believe that, but she always sounds so lovingly, painstakingly optimistic that I let the comfort the words are supposed to bring wash over me. 

I tell her everything, I hide nothing. Her words are the only words that have ever truly calmed me down, and she has never once judged me for the actions I’ve made to get to where I am. But if she ever became actively involved and got hurt… because of me? I’d go crazy. On a spree, probably. Like dad, long ago.

We spend the rest of the night talking, laughing, whispering the cheesiest shit imaginable. With her, all the nightmares, all the worries, all the shit piling atop my shoulders disappears. We haven’t been together very long, almost a year, but I know these feelings in my heart are becoming more real with every passing second I spend listening to her voice.

**_iv. (Dragon Blood Soundtrack)_ **

_ A few days later _

It’s a massacre. A bloody, grotesque massacre of kids suddenly crying out for parents that left them to fend for themselves. For mothers who never wanted them. For fathers who never returned. In the face of certain, absolute, horrifically painful death, these gun-wielders, these knife-throwers, these fist-fighters revert to the pathetic, sobbing children they are. So is the circle of life—they leave the world exactly as they were brought into it: unfathomably alone.

They were simply following orders, serving loyally one minute, face down the next.

We were unprepared. We are the reason they’re dead. Dead just like Benny long ago. Dead like I’m about to be.

Justin takes in young kids, the ones too young to be claiming independence. Houses them in safe spaces around our terf. Promises food, water, shelter, and protection. We afforded all except the last.

Word came by HQ via two very distraught, very out of breath girls, barely able to explain one of those very safehouses is under fire. We thought they’d meant another gang was attacking, breaking down doors and taunting with metal blades and bats and fists. Not with literal gunfire. Not with literal machine guns chipping away at the brick and wood, lining the walls with so many holes they all become one giant hole. 

There’s gang fighting alright, tooth and nail, staggering steps and a cocked-back fist ready to spring. But surrounding the entire building are these old men wearing suits of all things, loading and reloading, the fire never letting up. My first thought is the mafia, but what the fuck would the mafia be doing messing around with a bunch of irrelevant street kids? Who the fuck is this Mitsu and how the hell do they have the mafia lining their back pocket?

And how the hell are we supposed to stop them?

Then, just like that, the onslaught of noise halts, leaving all of our ears ringing in the aftermath. These mafia dudes calmly pack up their shit before we even manage to confront them and head out. Part of me wants to go after them, demand answers, but Justin catches my arm and directs my attention toward the fights still occurring within the premises. 

I can barely contain what little I ate today once we get inside, the smell makes the bile crawl up my throat and the sight makes me gag. Faces blown wide open, beyond recognition. Blood splattering the walls, the floor, the windows. And the moaning, the groaning of pure agony? 

Justin directs most everyone to attend to those still alive, no matter how precarious their situation, while I attempt to gather my wits. I follow him and others, searching for the remainders. The ones still prowling about, thirsty and savage. 

That is how I find myself now: pressed against cold, hard concrete and pinned with knees digging into my arms. A heavy body sits atop me, the hands and fingers squeezing tighter and tighter around my neck. My legs, the only things free, flail around, desperate for purchase. Darker and darker my vision becomes, the edges creeping closer. I wonder if the bones in my neck will be crushed before the last choking breath finally leaves my lungs. 

A sharp, jarring  _ BANG _ sounds in my ears and the body slumps forward, eyes suddenly, quickly lifeless. I roll out from underneath before the weight overwhelms me, wheezing for air on hands and knees. Looking up at the hand reached out, it’s Justin, rough-for-wear and sporting a cute, crooked, bloody nose. 

And behind him, a knife.

Wordlessly, I yank him down, quickly standing to place myself protectively in front of him. My arm lifts up automatically. The blade sinks into flesh and drags like a hot iron down onto my chest, stomach before I manage to grip the assaulter’s wrist and twist the weapon out of their hand, into mine, and into their neck. 

Despite my skin staining a pretty crimson, my shirt becoming wet and heavy, my mind can only focus on the group headed straight for us. For Justin.

“Go!” I shout, preparing to run. “They’re after you! I’ll distract them while you run!”

“What? No, no way!”

I shove him back angrily, forcefully, not even bothering to turn around. “If you died, I would never forgive myself. This gang needs you more than it needs me. Now, go!”

Adrenaline pushes me faster than I’ve ever ran before, longer than I thought possible. They are relentless for the first mile, slacking in the second, and I run at least one more before I double-back to the closest safehouse I can remember. A different one than the one housing the young kids. One specifically packed with food, water, and medical supplies should a situation exactly like my own ever arise. 

I stumble into the old, abandoned building, kicking up dust and bugs with my dagging footsteps. Smearing blood on every surface I rest against. There’s probably a path straight to me if anyone ever bothered to come inside and follow the little droplets of red on wood. 

The shock is setting in. Though I don't feel dizzy or light-headed, yet, my body suddenly feels incredibly cold and my hand is shaking so bad, it takes multiple tries to open up the damn medical case. 

My arm, useless, feels as if it’s been cut in half. And looks it, too. The best I can do in my current state is wrap it tight with tape and hope it doesn’t become infected. However, the worst part is removing my clothes. With one arm in serious pain, I barely manage to get the shirt over my head before hissing at the fabric pulling and sticking to the wound. My bra is worse, the underwire of one cup having been cut in half and sticking into my breast. Pulling it free results in a bead of blood growing and growing before trickling down into the rest. 

This cut, thought quite long, isn’t nearly as deep. I brace through the pain of wiping it down with alcohol and water before rifling through the case for butterfly bandages. I can’t find any, though, so I just twist the normal bandaids into makeshift ones and soon the floor is littered with plastic and trash. 

That’s when the dizziness appears. Against the door of the bathroom, sliding slowly down the wall, I can’t even remember hitting the floor before I pass out.


	3. Hamlet

“Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to feed us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.” -Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

* * *

**i. _(Lunar Shackles Soundtrack)_**

_6 years earlier_

Sometimes I’ll feel dad’s hand tighten around mine when we’re out in public together. When a group of people is loud or a strange man won’t leave anybody alone or even when someone gives dad more attention than he wanted. He tries to be strong for me, but when I feel that squeeze, I squeeze right back so he knows I can be strong for him, too.

He’ll smile down at me, haloed like an angel, and I know things will be okay. My dad is tough and so am I.

Today I’m gonna learn how to punch! Dad said he’s taking me to a gym so we can learn safely, and he also said that otosan couldn’t know. That it’s a surprise for him, so I’ve gotta keep quiet about it for now. Otosan, if he ever asks, thinks we’re at the library. “Special time for the favorite parent,” dad joked.

I’ve never been to a real gym like this before. It’s a lot bigger than I imagined, there’s even an elevator! Dad checks us in with the nice lady at the front desk and leads me past tons of different machines. Some of these people have the biggest muscles I’ve ever seen! It also kinda stinks in here, like rubber and sweat. And I don’t think there’s a single wall without a mirror on it.

I’m upset we use the stairs instead of the elevator, but dad just keeps leading us down a hallway with a bunch of different see-through doors. In them are a bunch of classes like yoga, I think, and dancing and a weird one where lots of old people are moving really slow. He stops in front of one, using the card that lady gave him, sliding it through the metal thing next to it. The light flashes from red to green, the sound of the door unlocking echoing in the space.

It’s a very grey room and the floor is covered with black mats. The lights flicker on with an annoying hum that doesn’t quit. It smells really bad in here, too, and it’s kinda cold. Standing here, without dad’s warmth next to me as he moves toward a closet in the corner, in some dumb shorts and a random shirt and my hair messily pulled up because I still can’t make it perfect, goosebumps prick up and down all along my arms and legs. 

“Enora.”

As I turn at the sound of my name, dad throws me a pair of black boxing gloves exactly like the kind I’ve seen on tv. Says we’ll start with the basic techniques, for now, letting me get used to the movements and momentum. I didn’t even get to actually punch anything today, just flailed my arms around until the muscles hurt. 

We work this way for the rest of the week, dad always correcting my stance, my posture, the way I’m holding my arms in defense or offense. I asked dad if he played a sport like martial arts when he was a kid, but he only replied, “Something like that, yeah..” Either way, he’s a really good teacher, knowing all kinds of tips and tricks a normal teacher wouldn’t spill.

After a while, I finally get to punch for real. Dad has a tiny mat-thing velcroed to his arm and tells me to go for it, reminding me of everything I’ve learned so far. I’m surprised how much it hurts, even with the gloves. I know real fights don’t happen with gloves on hand, so it makes me a little worried. Dad just says I’ll get used to it, that it won’t always hurt and my hands will build up calluses.

Eventually, we move on from those clunky gloves to these wraps dad has to help wrap around my hands and wrists. It hurts a lot worse punching like this, but dad seems so determined to teach me that I push through it. I ice them at the end of practice, always wondering how I’m supposed to hide my bruises from otosan if I’m supposed to be keeping this a secret. But it’s been so long, I don’t think this a surprise anymore. I don’t say anything, though.

Months have passed by and now I know lots more than just throwing punches. I can kick and dodge and wrestle someone, assuming they’re smaller than me, to the ground. Dad said he didn’t expect me to be getting into fights at my age, that this training was just for when I get older because by then I’ll be big and strong. But he also said that strength doesn’t always matter. That, if I really wanted to break someone’s nose, I just had to punch with the desire to do so. That having these skills was handy and made him feel better, but...I don’t know, something about “vengeance” and “resolve”, I think.

He asked me how I was so flexible, how I could dodge his punch by flipping backward or a kick by cartwheeling. I guess nobody ever mentioned I used to do gymnastics until my last foster parents made me quit. Dad took me out to get ice cream that session, instead, and we spent the whole time talking about how many tricks I could still do and how much fun I used to have with my team. 

I went on and on about how I was the absolute best at the floor exercise, but I really sucked at the uneven bars. I never got to try vaulting because that was for the older kids, but I did the high balance beam and fell off once and almost broke my ankle. My coach was only allowing us to perform simple acts, but one day out of the week we got to watch and try an attempt on the harder stuff. Those days were always fun. 

Once I finished my speech, along with the strawberry ice cream dribbling down my arm, dad took the opportunity to explain what a real fight might look like for me. Told me to use my stature to my advantage, to stay quick and light on my feet and use my reflexes like I’ve been honing. He also said that people liked to fight dirty, so I shouldn’t be afraid to fight dirty back. But that scared me. I didn’t want to accidentally kill someone. Dad just hugged me tight to his chest, whispering that he hoped I’d never have to.

These days, dad says I’m almost on par with him. I don’t believe that, but it makes me happy anyway to know I’ve pleased him in my progression. Otosan still doesn’t know, but I’ve just decided to ignore that fact and keep my promise to dad. He goes easy on me, I know he does, but it’s gotten far easier to predict and parry his attacks. He always reassures me at the end of those lessons, sweat dripping down his temples and his smile so bright and proud, that if I can keep up with him, then I can keep up with anyone.

At the end of the day, however, I still have so many questions. How does dad know all this stuff? Where did he learn it? Why does he want me to learn it, too? And why can’t otosan ever know? At the end of the day, however, I accept that these questions will probably never be answered and satisfy myself with the fact that I’m bonding with dad over something shared just between us and no one else.

**ii. _(Yut-Lung Soundtrack)_**

_Present time_

I don’t know what the hell happened to my phone during that fight, but it’s missing now. Along with a thousand missed calls from my parents, no doubt. I haven’t been home for two days, so I’m really in for it when I show up looking like this. Bloodied and bruised, paler than normal, sweaty and unshowered. 

You aren’t supposed to report a missing person after a certain number of hours, though I don’t think that’s actually true, just a stupid thing in dramas, but it’s the only excuse I cling to, to avoid making my way back home. I could’ve headed out as soon as I woke up from being slumped over the bathroom tile, sitting in a puddle of thick, semi-dried blood. I need more rest, but I can’t afford it. And being this fucked up has never stopped me in the past.

My arm hurt like a bitch, though, and unwrapping it was probably the worst decision I could’ve made in that moment. It was angry and pink, still oozing blood and puss when I pinched the edges together. Ignorance is bliss, I would’ve been better off pretending it was healing perfectly fine. But I cleaned it, allowing myself to scream periodically from the pain, and wrapped it in new bandages. 

My torso appeared okay, so I tossed my bra and put my shirt back on even though it was torn and stained a pretty shade of strawberry-lemonade in the most conspicuous spot ever.

And now here I am making myself a can of hot soup while it’s nearly ninety degrees outside. God, I want a shower so bad. And also to just be able to walk into my house silently, peacefully, unacknowledged. But the longer I go without letting them know I am, in fact, alive (barely, fuck), the more the chances rise for my entire double life to come crumbling down around me. 

I can’t have that happening. Especially in the current circumstances. 

Our way of life is deliberately being threatened by a new group of old ideals and vicious tendencies. And, some-fucking-how, they’ve managed to ally themselves with the goddamn mafia. Which mafia, I don’t have a fucking clue. The Corsican mafia doesn’t even exist within New York, anymore, and the Italians have never and will never fuck with dumb, slobby kids and...fuck, I don’t even know what other kind of mobsters are out there. 

The Chinese are headed by one, lone man these days, perhaps I should seek him out soon.

I don’t like my tumultuous mind in contrast to the still waters of the atmosphere. Memories, scenarios, thoughts, strategies—my brain is pacing erratically while I take slow, measured, dissociative sips of chicken noodle. The dust around this tiny kitchen has settled in my wake, the cupboards seemingly undisturbed and the stovetop cooling down from red rings to grey. 

After that disaster that was...the soft, the quiet, the easing tranquility shouldn’t exist, shouldn’t be allowed to exist. All my life, I’ve put myself on autopilot, sprinting through to the finish of things without ever stopping for a breather. That’s what this should be, but it’s not. It’s drawn out, moments suspended in anticipation and inevitability. I feel wired, waiting, buzzing like I’m cracked out on unhealthy energy drinks.

All that soup comes swirling back up, burning and chunky, into the pot I’d been eating out of. 

Otosan rarely yells, but they’ve both got me cornered as soon as I step through the door. Then I turn around and the abrupt silence is decidedly worse. Before dad shouts, “Enora, what the fuck?” and otosan says nothing to reprimand his language. 

I’m ashamed of myself. Making them worry and stress over my whereabouts, showing up half-dead like this, and still unable to tell them the truth of why and how and what. They drag me to the bathroom, examining every damaged inch of my skin and gasping at my wounds. Otosan suggests taking me to the emergency room, but it’s been too long. I’ve already cleaned and treated them as best I could. The only reason to go would be to get the necessary stitching for my arm, but the wound is already closing, so they’d just have to open it back up. 

Otosan works diligently, practiced. Meanwhile, dad is firing question after question, I can barely keep up. I just want to sleep at this point. My every answer is the same: a half-assed, vague explanation that someone mugged me and I stayed at a friend’s house to recuperate. Neither of them buys it. I can see the look they share, the grim expression turning the frowns deeper. 

I expected a fight, emotions spewing forth amid fire and sparks. Maybe otosan fixes dad with a pointed glare, something akin to understanding passing between them, entirely missed by me. Either way, dad pulls back, shuts his mouth, caresses me in comfort once otosan begins messing with the gap in my arm. 

They leave me to shower, tense and eerily quiet. I can’t imagine the conversation they’re sharing just outside the bathroom door. They acted differently. Subdued, almost. Maybe it was a shock. They’ve spent their whole lives protecting me from their pasts, but here I am looking just like they used to. The reality is caving in, suffocating them just like it’s been suffocating me for years. 

Though freshly showered and bundled beneath soft blankets with a large dog snoozing next to me, I still feel unclean. Like if I pulled my hand out from beneath my head, I’d still see it caked in red and dirt. Like if I ran my fingers through my hair, it’d be matted and sticky. Like if I shut my eyes, I’d see flashes of bodies, familiar and unfamiliar.

Someone opens up my door, softly, knowing exactly where it will and won’t creak. Dad’s voice is the same when he says, “You’re grounded for two weeks. You got all the time in the world to rest. And, after, you’re gonna tell us the truth.”

Part of me doesn’t mind.

**iii.** **_(Yut-Lung Soundtrack cont.)_ **

_Later that night_

Sneaking out has never been a reliable escape for me. Dad wakes too often, otosan always following. I never know when they’re actually asleep because they keep their comforts quiet, private. I stopped eavesdropping a long time ago. It was always the same thing, then I was told and suddenly realized those moments were to be shared solely between them. 

Tonight, however, I think I’ll risk it. All afternoon, I laid in bed like a stone statue. Exhausted, safe, comfortable—I couldn’t close my eyes for more than a few minutes before my mind conjured up those intrusive thoughts, memories. To be honest, I kind of want to sleep in between my parents, cuddled into warmth and protection. 

But Raven is always available, too. 

I’ll have to be back before six. Otosan probably won’t bother me until breakfast, and he won’t make me talk until dad is there to hear. Realistically, I have until noon before the interrogation. Plenty of time to prepare myself, my lies, my tragic deception. Sprinkle in a little bit of truth, get their expectations lowered just enough to soften the blow. 

And also figure out my phone situation. I think they forgot to ask in the shock of things.

It’s so humid, I just pull on a pair of old shorts and the largest t-shirt I can find (I think it’s one of otosan’s, actually) and pull the yellow up out of my face and neck. Without my phone, I really have nothing to bring except my keys. Pulling up my window and leaving it unlocked, I don’t even really need those. 

Thank God for fire safety codes requiring a fire escape for every window in tall apartments. 

One foot in and one foot out, I make direct eye-contact with that kid above my room in a hazy, white cloud. We freeze, both caught in illicit acts. _I won’t tell if you won’t tell,_ I think. My finger comes up to my mouth in the universal symbol to keep quiet and he pantomimes zipping his lips. Also, thank God for rebellious teenage solidarity. 

Raven lives with her older brother because their parents were never around much growing up. And, now, neither is he because they can barely afford to pay rent as is. Not that I visit often anyway, but I still have yet to meet him. She’s lonely, I can tell. She can’t come over here until I work up the nerve to tell my dads I have a girlfriend.

I’d really like her to meet them, one day, though.

Her apartment isn’t like ours where there’s a buzzer to let people in, it’s just an open concrete stairwell to climb until you hit the correct floor. Junkies, dwellers, and others are always loitering along the rails, but nobody really pays them any mind. Not a single door still has their plastic numbering, just the faint, rusted outline of where they’d been. A shooting occurred a while back, so some of the windows are still boarded up. 

Finally, I reach the shadows of _303_ , knock, and patiently wait. Footsteps, the sound of the deadbolt unlocking, and the door is pulled open with the loudest hinges ever. Raven stands there in sweats and a sports bra, barefoot and barely awake. Those black bangs of hers have the worst cowlick I’ve ever seen and the rest is a mess of tangles to the slope of her jawline. Those monolids widen in surprise once she recognizes the person knocking.

“Enora?” She exclaims, ushering me inside. “What the hell are you doing here? You haven’t answered your phone for two fucking days!” Then she notices my rather beat-up appearance. “And what the hell happened to you?”

I smile sheepishly, replying, “Yeah, I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

Raven knows everything. All the shit I do behind my parents’ backs. Every single time an argument ensues. Random fucking anecdotes from the day’s activities—whether it be interesting facts learned in school or the shit some fucker tried to pull in the gang’s bar. I trust her to listen as I rant on and on and I trust her to give me sound advice when I ask for it. 

I think I’m falling in love. It’s kind of scary. I’ve never been in love before. I should ask dad about it. And otosan separately. They’d say different things, but between the lines, it’s all the same. She means so much to me, but I’ve no idea how to word it.

Faint sirens fill the otherwise content silence, fading in and fading out through the open window. The setting is city-esque tranquility—two lovers sharing intimacy and comfort in a world full of bad luck and the unforgiving. Raven has pulled me back into her arms, back against her headboard and pillows and sheets, as I use her phone to call Justin. 

It rings only once before he picks up, “Who the hell is this and how’d you get my number?”

The gang uses burner phones to keep in contact with one another and to keep others, like the cops or rival gangs, off of our tail. I do too, on occasion. It’s imperative to memorize the ever-changing numbers. And imperative to act cautiously when an unknown number calls a throw-away cell.

“Relax, it’s Nora,” I placate, leaning forward to allow Raven to move out from beneath me. “My phone got busted, so.”

He sighs on the other end, the line crackling badly. Wonder where he is. “Fuck, we were all worried about you! Thought you died or somethin’.”

That makes me smile, albeit sadly. “Nora Lynx has surpassed death many times, what’s one more?”

“Those nine lives are gonna run out soon.”

It’s quiet, the two of us breathing steadily over the phone, unable to say anything. There’s nothing I can say to comfort him, and vice versa. Nothing about our friendship has ever been calm, safe. It’s always one of us pulling the other out of a scrape, worrying ceaselessly, looking over both our shoulders. 

“Anyway,” I say, shaking myself out of that headspace, “I’m grounded for two weeks, so I won’t be available.”

Justin quips, “Thank God your parents are sensible enough to stop you from putting yourself in reckless situations.”

I roll my eyes. They can handle things just fine without me. Two weeks isn’t that long.

**iv. _(Papa and Cat Soundtrack)_**

_A few days later_

This sitting around and waiting is getting on my nerves. I’ve exhausted all the artistic ability within my bones painting the few random canvases in my room. Spoke with the kid above my room and discovered he’s actually a prepubescent douche. Admitted to my parents that I lost my phone and will not be receiving a new one until my two weeks are up. 

Speaking of my parents, I spent the entire night at Raven’s formulating a better, more intricate lie than my previous spur-of-the-moment one. Told them, with faux reluctance, that I’d been out scoping this new bookstore in LES (because there is, in fact, a new bookstore in LES that I do plan on scoping out soon) when I’d witnessed these kids getting attacked by older kids and I couldn’t just simply stand around and do nothing.

Raven came up with that, but I struggled with accepting it because it reminded me too much of Benny, too much of what really did happen. She said that was good, that if I ended up crying while saying it, then it’d be more believable. I was just hoping, regretfully, to appeal to their former struggle. That they’d see themselves in me and soften up a bit. And the reason I didn’t come home was because I was too scared; I knew they’d be angry.

It worked. Now I just feel incredibly guilty for being so damn cunning when they’re just trying to keep me safe. 

Otosan is out at another shoot right now and dad’s locked away in his office in a screaming match with Max over the phone. Something about dad complaining the article is too boring and Max telling him to quit whining and “get on with it.” And I’ve been periodically stealing books from dad’s library to occupy myself.

I can’t focus on anything, too worried about a life that isn’t truly mine to live. 

Wait...that reminds me. I do still have my laptop.

**2:18 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** I am aware you have no obligation to be giving any favors, but you are the only person I can think of without bias to aid in this situation. I have nothing to offer, but I would appreciate the decency.

**2:32 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** Quite eloquent for a teenager. I know who you are, Lynx, and you should do a better job of hiding your identity if you’d rather your father stay unaware of your recent actions. I have a feeling I already know what you want to ask of me.

**2:33 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** Apologies, Lee Yut-Lung, I was attempting modesty. Let me cut to the chase: why would the mafia be helping a gang of children? I see no profit, no gain, no incentive.

**2:34 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** Money. Or relation, though I don’t see how there could be one in your situation.

**2:35 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** What money? Most of these gangs run on stolen property and make-shift gear. We have no money to spare.

**2:37 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** Not your gang. This new gang, however, appears to collect quite the stash at the end of every week. They aren’t very coordinated when it comes to running and selling drugs. My men have mentioned kids setting up shop in our territory quite a few times, but I’ve left them be for now just to watch what happens. Clearly, my instincts were correct.

**2:38 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** Still seems a pointless venture, to me, for the mafia to be involved.

**2:42 p.m.**

**Anonymous:** I don’t have time to speak to you all day, I am a very busy man. I will research this mafia to the best of my ability and get back to you with any important information. For now, I will explain: even the lowest rung of the chain of power in a mafia has authority. They will execute said authority under the noses of the higher-ups for their own profit. If this gang is paying them enough, these people have no qualms sending their worst men to fight a bunch of kids. I can guarantee, however, that as soon as the money runs out, the mafia will too.

I close my laptop, pensive, surprised he even bothered to answer. Yut-Lung has been extremely quiet in these past years. As the last surviving member of the Lee Family and still heirless, I suppose he wants the name to die out with him. 

Nobody speaks of him, not even Sing. Chinatown, the gang there, still keeps strong ties in order to keep their people safe and protected. All I’ve ever heard of him in recent times is the gossip spread throughout the kids’ mouths. That he vacations in the Caribbean quite often and drinks himself into stupors even more. My gut tells me he is an ally I can trust so long as I don’t involve him further.

I should let Justin know.

**v. _(Prayer Soundtrack)_**

_Later that day_

Tonight's dinner is shrimp and avocado salad because dad dreamt about it in his afternoon nap and begged otosan as soon as he’d stepped through the door. I just shrugged when otosan questioned me with his gaze, I’ve never been a picky eater. 

Dad and I argue over what to watch on tv while the meal is being fixed before the remote is swiped from both of our hands and the channel switched to the news by a smug otosan. 

“Dinner’s ready,” he announces, practically sashaying away.

I’m handed the dressing because my arm still hurts if I stretch it too far. It’s going to be a gnarly scar and I’ll have to lie about how I got it forever now. Forks clink against bowls, ice clinks against glass, conversation is quiet and light, the news is boring—

_“Police are investigating reports of a drive-by shooting last night. Calls came in around two-fifteen, reporting gunshots and screaming. They arrived on scene to multiple victims, all adolescents and only three survivors. Detectives are investigating, but report signs of a recent upsurge in gang violence as one such victim is confirmed to be Justin Miller, a well-known gang leader around Lower Manhattan. Anybody with information is asked to contact New York Police Department.”_

The fork falls from my hand. My entire body numbs. I don’t think I’m even breathing.

I just spoke to him a couple of days ago, he can’t—he can’t—

“How upsetting,” Otosan mentions offhandedly, though I know it truly does upset him. 

Dad just grunts out, “Yeah,” before shutting the entire tv off, ending the discussion. He always refuses to acknowledge these things.

It’s a touchy subject for this family.

I’m willing myself not to cry, not to let the tears loose building hard and fast behind my eyes. I’m no longer hungry. In fact—

With shouts of protest from both parents, I bolt from the table, nearly knocking the whole thing over, and empty out my stomach and then some into the toilet. I can’t help myself, I start sobbing uncontrollably between mouthfuls of vomit and bile. I must be in hysterics. Hands are grabbing at me, pulling me into a chest, smoothing out my hair, rubbing circles into my heaving chest, my back. Dad even questions whether to give me a dose of his anxiety prescription medication, genuinely terrified.

The worst part is they don’t even know why I’m reacting like this. They just think that type of news is upsetting to me, that I must be sensitive like otosan. I wish I could tell them. I can’t do this alone. Not without Justin.


	4. The Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ain't like this chapter, but I ran out of desire to keep fixing it

“And, moreover, to succeed, the artist must possess the courageous soul.” -Kate Chopin,  _ The Awakening _

* * *

******i. _(Oathkeeper Soundtrack)_**

_ 3 years earlier _

Justin heads a no-name gang; a melting-pot of shattered groups, faceless kids, names that mean nothing until they do. Affiliation is word of mouth, recognizing allies and remaining cautious around strangers until convinced otherwise. It’s assumed you can take care of yourself, assumed you can acquire your own weaponry, assumed you can pull your weight when needed. Everybody has a home within Justin’s wide circle, but everyone, by default or perhaps by the charisma emanating from him at all times, also offers their services.

I’m not quite sure what my services could be, yet, but I swear I’ve never felt so belonged before. They all call me ‘Nora’ and not a single person has questioned my past or where I came from or how I ended up here. Apparently, being personally inducted by the leader is quite prestigious and nobody questions Justin. 

Speaking of, he hasn’t asked me anything, either. Surely making acquaintances with Benny (even thinking of him still chokes me up) couldn’t possibly be enough to allow someone you’ve just met into your group? I shouldn’t even be worrying about it. I don’t know enough about gang life to properly worry. 

Their base, or hideout, or headquarters, is a dingy bar that smells permanently of cigarette smoke (who even smokes cigarettes they days?) and weed. Part of me wonders how this bar is even running when the legal age to drink is twenty-one and all their patrons aren’t even eighteen. Connections, I guess. So much running under the table.

To be honest, it’s kind of fun to just chill on the edge of conversation, just barely permeating the buddle of inside jokes and laughter, lounging around cement walls or an alcohol-splattered floor. I have yet to insert myself into anyone’s good graces, so I mostly keep to myself with a cold drink or a bowl of peanuts. 

I did once take over someone’s place in a game of billiards and won by a dramatic landslide. The cheers, the clapping on my back was the most attention I’ve received so far. 

It’s not so bad. These kids sure like to gossip and I’ve already overheard so many stories in passing. Some brutal, some funny, some that make me seriously reconsider my actions as of late. But they mention a boy named ‘Ash Lynx’ quite frequently.

I’ve never heard the full story, just bits and pieces I’ve had to construct together for a tangible plotline that I’m not entirely sure is correct, but I’ve figured out that he isn’t around anymore. That it’s apparently been years since anyone has heard from him, but he was a legend among the Street Kids of Manhattan. Capital letters included. 

They always speak of him with such conviction and admiration and a little bit of trepidation as if his spirit is lingering just behind corners and doorways to scold them into being better or something. Maybe he is one. They say he just showed up one day, some banged-up kid with the smarts of having lived independently for a long time and, somehow simultaneously, the smarts of having graduated with a degree and everything.

He seems like an oxymoron to me (I just learned that in school and I can’t stop using it). A being having already lived a thousand lives, someone who’s been sewn together with various facets of life. Or a person living doubly like me. 

I just think it’s interesting he shares the same name I’ve heard people call my dad, but I guess ‘Ash’ isn’t that unusual. I bet not one person shares the name ‘Aslan’, though. 

But people speak about this infamous boy often, and those whispers of awe are always accompanied by other words like “mafia” or “drug” or “trafficking”. He appears to have lived more in eighteen years than most people do in eighty. 

They like to tell one story, one that isn’t so fabricated or so full of holes one can’t be sure if the facts are even straight, about his rise to power. That, a long time ago, this kid named ‘Arthur’ had attempted to seize control when out of seemingly nowhere. or maybe like a prophet, Ash Lynx became a well-known figure marching his way down every street and alley with skills beyond comparison. 

As is tradition, Arthur, threatened by this newcomer, challenged him to a fight. Fair, with switchblades, and a crowd of witnesses. Ash Lynx won, squarely, but Arthur was so enraged he pulled a gun on him at the last second. They say they were surprised Arthur even managed to salvage any of his fingers after that, serious scarring mangling the knuckles of each, but he was never able to use a gun again. 

Ash Lynx officially, unofficially became leader after that and nobody dared to question his authority. Sounds like the kind of story to tell the younger members what could happen if they misbehave. A fable with a morally sound message to contemplate. 

There are tons of other stories to tell, but I don’t know how much I believe in them, or how much I believe in the people relaying them. Facts became strewed after time, after consistently being handed down via faint whispers or paraphrasing. Unfortunately, it’s believed Ash Lynx resolutely cut all strings attached, decisively burned all bridges to him so there isn’t anyone left available to speak the truth of his famed existence. 

Nursing a glass of something alcoholic that I cannot believe the bartender willingly made for me, it appears today’s topic of conversation is less fanciful stories of times past and more urgent reports of a deadly gang becoming cockier by the second. It upsets me. Scares me a little, too. Justin suspects this gang is behind Benny’s murder. 

They tell me they loved Benny, that the kid was so talkative it was hard not to notice he was there. That he made friends wherever he went because he simply didn’t have a judgmental bone in his body. “And, God, wasn’t that kid so loyal and brave?” He just wanted to do good in the world. 

I knew him for an hour of my life, yet all those adjectives are so perfectly accurate. They have to be. How could they not if he is entirely the reason I am where I am now? Fourteen, drinking liquor in a bar, surrounded by a gang that is becoming my second home. I surely couldn’t have achieved this on my own. My dads would kill me if they knew.

I don’t know much about this new gang, but Justin said it happens frequently. Someone gets pissed at the balance of power, the hierarchy or whatever, and thinks they can scrounge up a few like-minded individuals to wreak some senseless havoc around the city. Justin is concerned because this gang seems to have no problem killing off those who won’t conform, regardless of innocence. 

I want to help, but I’m not really sure how—

The door to the bar, typically locked at this time of day, slams open and in rush about a dozen kids wielding knives, bats, their fists. Chaos. Pure chaos. Not a single person runs. Fights break out in various parts all across the floor—pool sticks breaking over backs, bottles smashing over heads, stools flying amid blood, spittle, and teeth. 

Some girl, snarling and manic, stalks her way over to my poor form hunched at the bar. Instincts I’ve never before needed to use kick in. Glasses and liquid flies from my hand to smash into her unsuspecting face. She staggers back momentarily, but it’s enough time for me to swing from the stool and swing a leg beneath her, knocking her off her feet.

Honestly, I don’t remember much of the actual fight, only the aftermath. Suddenly, I went from one end of the place to other, a wake of groaning and unconscious kids behind me. Everybody stares at me, equal parts astounded and horrified. What did I do? The same as everyone else… why are they staring?

Looking down, I realize why my hands are throbbing so bad. They’re red. Scraped and cut and, putting the pieces together, I can’t tell where my blood begins and the other poor souls end. 

Someone places a hefty, purposeful arm around my shoulders, bring me around to face the crowd. “Ya think Nora here has proved herself?” Justin asks, smiling charmingly and prettily and commanding attention like a good leader should. 

Cries go up. It’s an uproar. People screaming, whooping, hollering in fascination. They chant my name that’s not my name, clapping me on the back and ruffling my straw hair. They tell me I fight like Ash Lynx. Ruthless. Cold-blooded. Like I’m out to kill.

If that’s how Ash Lynx was, I don’t want to be like him.

**ii. _(The Return of Zen Soundtrack)_**

_ Present time _

White walls, white ceiling, white floors—that’s what the hospital would’ve looked like if Justin got to go to one. He would’ve hated it, claimed there were younger, hurting children in more need of care than him. Maybe that’s what drew me to him first. He knew, was so painfully aware that he couldn’t provide everything these kids needed, but he tried his damned hardest. Because no one else was ever going to bother.

I never found out where he came from or what his story was. Whether he had parents or not, whether he ran away or was kicked out, whether he even had a personal life or if it all just mingled together for him. Justin, to me, was like a born leader; like he was brought into this world for no other purpose than that in which he accomplished. If given the choice to live a better life, I’d like to think he’d say no. Horribly honorable, right?

He was my best friend. And nobody even knew. 

But today is the first day I’m allowed to leave and these emotions must be contained. Crying so hard that I vomit around my parents is not a great way to divert attention. I also haven’t spoken more than a few words to either of them for four days, so…

Would they buy it if I said I was just angry?

Probably not. Maybe I should just give them the silent treatment, see if that works better?

Why do they both have to be so damn astute? Not about everything, but just enough that whatever one doesn’t catch, the other almost always does. They’re such a perfect fucking pair, it pisses me off. 

I don’t know where either of them is right now, but it gives me the perfect opportunity to leave without nuisance. I’ve got a new phone now, they can call me if they’re that worried. 

Smiling an empty smile to the few neighbors I pass down the hall, I reach the elevator with a frown so sharp it’ll probably leave permanent indentations on my face. It takes forever for the stupid button to light up a fading an orange, for the soft  _ ding  _ to sound, for the doors to open and—

“Whoa, who pissed in your soup this morning?”

Sing likes to stop by without notice quite frequently. Akira only accompanies him sometimes. Today, he is alone. And in my way.

“That was the worst phrase you could’ve said,” I reply, trying to act nonchalant. Or like a an angsty teenager who is normal and isn’t living a double life and didn’t just hear about a very close friend...nope, stop those thoughts. You will cry and that will be worse.

Sing, freakishly tall and still boyishly thin even after all these years I’ve known him, smiles sheepishly. “Ah, sorry…”

I don’t know why, but, at some point, conversation between the two of us became the hardest hurdle to cross. Always filled with awkward pauses, heavy silence, an inability to look the other over in the face and admit the elephant in the room. It didn’t use to be like this, but then I grew up. Or he and Akira decided to try for kids. Either way, I avoid Sing even though I do love him. Things are just weird right now.

We stand quietly, politely, awkwardly for a few minutes until I shuffle past him before the doors decide to close. They shouldn’t be taking this long to close.

“Well, Enora, it was nice to see you.”

I nod, cringing internally, and the doors, my salvation, finally begin to move, but then that question pops into my head and I know I’ll never have another opportunity to ask.

Quickly, almost tripping over my feet, I squeeze through the gap with a startled, “Sing, wait!”

He turns, stunned, watching me awkwardly pull myself through in confusion. “Yes?”

Huffing and suddenly shy, I can’t meet his eyes when I ask, “What was it like to be a gang leader at fourteen?”

His brows, thick and clearly uncared for, shoot up before furrowing in suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug, pretending to act innocent. “I keep hearing about that stuff on the news and I was just curious. You know my dads don’t like to talk about it.” As an afterthought, “I might write a scholarship paper on it.” I mean, now that I think about it, that’s not a bad idea.

He’s wearing a black tank top, hands at his hips allowing me to see the bushy mess beneath his armpits. Some old shades rest atop his head. “Oh,” he nods, thinking, “well...it was kind of intimidating, I guess. I know I wanted it for a long time, but then it happened and I wasn’t really ready. I kept trying to live up to everyone’s expectations, trying to be like the people I looked up to. But there was a lot of stuff I wasn’t ready for.” He scratches the back of his neck, finished with his fumbled statement. “Was that okay?”

I nod, suddenly terrified. “Perfect, yup, thank you!” Then turn and press the button once more while trying to calm the fuck down.

I hear Sing’s footsteps fade down the hall as I find myself dreading having to face today. What I wouldn’t give to crawl back into bed and wish for things to magically be okay again. But shit doesn’t work like that. The world is cruel and unforgiving and here I am trying to make something of it.

**iii.** **_(The Return of Zen Soundtrack cont.)_ **

_ Later that day _

I’ve never seen the bar this crowded before. Packed so tight there’s barely any room to breathe in the hot air that not even the AC can relieve. No music is pounding through the speakers, but the speaking is deafening. A few people notice me, try to get my attention, but I weave and duck my way through the throngs of people to the back room where it’s much easier to breathe.

What the fuck is going on?

Frankie is pacing the room, a few frazzled others trying to calm her down. However, she stops abruptly in her steps, eyes zeroing in on my form having just shut the door. “Nora! You—I—We—” She stumbles, struggling for words, face falling in a way that’s too familiar.

“I know about Justin,” I admit, choking up at the words and trying desperately to swallow around the sudden lump in my throat. Now is not the time.

A collective sadness drowns the room, everyone’s eyes downcast and heads bowed as if in a prayer that would mean nothing at this point. It’s an acknowledgment we can’t speak of yet. An unfortunate inevitability that we all were disillusioned with by convincing ourselves it would never happen. 

People just keep dying this way. Why do we all continue to believe it won’t be someone we care for next?

“What’s going on?” I ask, attempting to relieve the tension. Focus ourselves on more important issues.

Frankie runs a hand through her curls, disheveling the mess further, clearly aggravated. “The gang won’t fuckin’ listen to me!”

“Why?”

“Because they’re scared! Because if Justin died so fuckin’ easily, then they can too!” She looks to me with anger and reluctant acceptance. “Because they want you, not me.”

This is exactly what I knew was going to fucking happen. I don’t want this. I’m not cut out for this. I just do my part and keep to myself, so how the fuck am I supposed to head a band of kids who have me on the highest fucking pedestal? 

It’s the name. I’m not my father. Not in the ways that matter.

But… I can’t just let them down. Not now. 

“Well,” I start, formulating a plan in my head, “neither of us want that, but we’ve got bigger problems right now.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I’ll act as a figurehead. You do all the leading while I'll be something pretty for them to look at.”

Lynx. They don’t even know. 

This stupid fucking legacy keeps pulling me further down. They think I’m some God or something, invincible and powerful. Deadly. A killer. 

I mean, I guess I am. Death, at least death I cause, doesn’t phase me anymore. Just a few holes in a body, slits in a neck, a simple shove off heights. It means nothing when the person is also trying to kill you. Does that make me a bad person? Would dad think I’m a bad person? Would otosan? 

They would. They think of themselves as bad people. I’m no different. 

They’re gonna hate me if they ever find out. And I deserve it. All the screaming, the crying, the disappointment lacing their words—I’d just sit there and take it because it’s all true. It’s why they can’t ever know. I’m not ready for it.

Frankie and I, along with a few others, converse in the back around our usual table. It’s an old, rickety thing holding a simple, ripped map of Manhattan. The edges curl up so bad that we’ve had to find odd paperweights, like a bloody piece of brick, to hold it down. The map is scribbled to hell, marking up our hideouts, territories, faded erasures of past runs. Today, it’s simply used as the temporary surface for our hands to slap angrily with each ridiculous suggestion.

I should go out there and announce my leadership impermanence, give them something happy to think on. But the idea just makes me nervous. Having all those people look up to me for real... I’m not ready for it. 

For now, I stay back here arguing back and forth with Frankie over what we should do about this fucking gang. Not ours. The other one. The one who shoots up storefronts without a single fucking care for innocent bystanders. Not all the victims were gang members. But I guess they got the one who mattered, so they don’t care.

In the end, the discussion leads to absolutely nothing. Jack shit. Just pissed off friends in need of vices and separation. And when I step through the door, wound tighter than a fucking drum, everybody stops and stares. Expectant. Waiting and waiting and waiting like schoolchildren on Monday mornings.

I stutter out the first thing that comes to mind, “We’re handling things. Justin won’t die in vain.”

It’s a cop-out, but they appear appeased at my words. Some even cry out agreements, clinking glasses together. They’re expecting me to know what to do, but they have no idea I’m just as lost as they are. Justin really was the one thing holding us all together. 

I would very much like to cry beneath my covers. Instead, I push my way through these sudden strangers and accept my unwanted position. I’ve got a fucking job to do and that’s all.

**iv. _(Moment Soundtrack)_**

_ Later that afternoon _

Raven has a tapestry over her bed. It’s a kaleidoscope of swirling colors, sort of a cosmic rainbow to lose yourself in. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Letting my eye unfocus just enough that it all blurs together. That, for just a moment even, I forget I’m even staring at anything at all. It’s horribly cliche of us to be passing a blunt back and forth, but so it goes when I’m riddled with stress and anxiety. 

With my head in her lap, it’s almost like a dramatic therapy scene as I ramble on and on about my worries. Though, these issues of mine seem a tad more urgent than most. She hasn’t said a word, her bobbed hair bouncing along with every punctuation in acknowledgment. She smiles, she grimaces, she pets my hair in soothing motions. Always an open ear.

“What the fuck do I do?” I ask, deflated, arms falling back to my stomach.

I feel like I’ve aged so much in just two weeks. Is it visible? Do I have stress wrinkles?

“Well, first,” Raven answers, trailing a soft finger down the side of my face, “calm down. You can’t make any dependable decisions all keyed like this.” She eyes the half-finished roll. “Clearly, we need stronger weed.”

I allow myself to laugh, though I don’t really find it funny. “Okay, I’m calm. I’m zen. The perfect picture of tranquility.”

She gives me that deadpan look, but relents. “Okay, now think it through rationally. List the pros and cons, even.”

“Offense versus defense. Offense: taking out this Mitsu means solving the problem, but there a lot of these kids don’t know how to fight. Defense: protecting our gang means prolonging the problem, but it focuses on keeping more kids alive.” I sigh, frustrated. “They both just lead to the same damn outcome. Plus, it’s not even my decision to make!”

Once upon a time, we were all happy and hanging out like normal teenagers around NYC. Someone always has to play the antagonist.

Raven hums. “If they both lead to the same thing, then it sounds like you should take the risk. Isn’t that what Justin did a long time ago?”

_ Justin...I fucking wish you were here right now.  _

“Yeah, but they came back!”

“With the mafia,” She emphasizes, “they could kill all of you if you don’t do something quick.”

Am I seriously considering setting up these kids to die? That would all be on my hands. With each one who goes down, that’s more blood to stain me. Is this even about them? Or is this just about me unwilling to put myself through that? They joined this gang knowing full well what it entailed. They’re loyal, they would protect each other down to the last second. Maybe the universe is telling me it’s time to finally prove that.

“Guess we’re gonna kill these sons of bitches.”

Without warning, Raven’s mouth is on mine, pushing smoke into my lungs with every swipe of her tongue. I hold my breath until she pulls away, stunned and a little bit hot. Then cough out white puffs.

“What was that for?”

She smirks, eyes shining. “It was kinda hot...what you said.”


	5. Frankenstein

“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments are we bound to prosperity and ruin.” -Mary Shelley,  _ Frankenstein _

* * *

******i. ( _The Last Waltz Soundtrack)_**

_ Two years earlier _

Screaming. Someone’s screaming. Not shouting or yelling.

Screaming.

Terrified.

Painful.

The kind you can vividly hear the raw emotion pouring forth from their mouths, bursting into an array of horrific memories, thoughts, nightmares. Words need not be spoken to know their life story. Details are skewed, but the narrative is always an overarching theme. Like the movies accurately placed into the ‘psychological thriller’ category of streaming services. 

My skin prickles uncomfortably, hair standing upright. It happens before I wake up with a start; before I fully register the difference between dream and reality. My blankets, gifts from Jessica and Nadia, fall to the floor in my haste, my scramble for footing. The world is beginning to make more sense in conjunction with my eyes adjusting to the darkness. 

I skid down the hall and push open a door with just enough care to keep it from slamming into the wall. Louds noises are unwanted when dad is panicking like this—hyperventilating, sobbing, a shivering mess in otosan’s arms because he’s still in the stage of confusion. Not knowing where he is or who is with him, blind and unaware. 

It scares me to see him like this. Dad, tough and strict and annoyingly smart, reduced to a cracked, peeling shell of a person. Does it make me a bad daughter to want to pull him all apart just to know why it happens? Or will pulling him apart leave me with no dad at all? Maybe I could do something instead of standing around helplessly.

Otosan’s head lifts from where he’s whispering phrases into dad’s yellow, tangled mess, eyes narrowing as he tells me, “Go, Enora. Now.”

Three seconds more I stand there like a deer in headlights, gaze withering away at dad’s hands clawing at otosan’s shirt, nearly tearing at the fabric. “Eiji?” he says meekly, desperately. A whimper in wherever his mind believes he is. Otosan responds with a soft  _ hum _ , petting and caressing dad’s blotchy, tear-stained cheeks. Stern, no room for negotiation, he mouths at me to go. And I do.

Reluctantly.

An hour later, otosan’s soft, recognizable knocking sounds throughout my room. I stay quiet, holding my breath just in case. On nights like these, I stay wide awake, ruminating in the dark beneath a whirring ceiling fan and glow-in-the-dark stars. Burrowed in a warm cocoon with icy hands and feet. Ears straining to hear strings of foreign sentences, bits and pieces of a plot yet unknown through the paint and plaster. 

I’m not quite sure why I still try. None of it ever makes any sense.

The knob turns. The lock clicks open. The hinges creak and groan. “Enora? I know you’re still awake.” Otosan’s voice is a whisper. It’s always a whisper. Sifting through the cracks in the foundation and wrapping his two blond-haired loves in safety and comfort and adoration. 

“Go away,” I retort, upset. “You told me to, so why can’t you?” I sniff, a dumb tic I’ve adopted even when I’m not crying. “Shouldn’t you be with dad?”

Otosan steps into my room, his silhouette outlined by the moon’s rays. Not enough for me to see the exhaustion and despondency, but I can hear it in his shuffles and sighs. “He’s asleep.”

He moves to sit down and I can feel the bed dip, the blankets tighten. Neither one of us speak for a very long time. Simple, gentle breaths back and forth like a see-saw. And one fitful gasp a room over. 

“Why does dad get nightmares all the time?”

The inexorable question, unabated and without preamble. One I’ve pondered time and time again, but never voiced because to speak it into existence was forever considered taboo. Growing up, I learned there were certain things we didn’t speak about. Ever. Friends would come over and mention instances, events, past remembrances before being quickly shushed and silenced by either of my dads. 

They never said my name, but I knew it was always because of me. I was in the room, I didn’t have my ears covered, I was too smart and too intuitive for my own good. I understood they had to be careful around me and it was frustrating that I never knew why. 

I wonder if I’ll know why now.

Otosan sighs, a caricature of his being, and lays down beside me atop the covers. Rolls onto his side and brings an arm up around me. Speaks with quiet, lulling Japanese, “He just had a rough childhood, Enora-chan. Bad things happened to him and he struggles sometimes. You know Max and Jessica aren’t his real parents and his brother isn’t alive anymore...it makes him upset.”

I already know those things. I already guessed those things. Searched up on the internet, one day, signs of PTSD and thought dad should be the cover photo for the article. Rifled through his prescription medicine, typed out these ridiculously complex names into Google, and found out most of them were for treating anxiety. One was for depression, but it was fairly old and practically full. 

There is another thing that’s been bothering me, however. Clues, circumstantial evidence piling up like old police records of cases long past, irrefutable coincidences. 

“Does it have anything to do with ‘Ash Lynx’?”

A very pregnant pause passes between us. 

“How do you know that name?” Otosan sounds defensive, suspicious. An onslaught of troubling emotions he’s visibly felt at one point or another, but never together like this. 

It feels as if I’m one puzzle piece away. I just have yet to place it.

“Alex said it once, and Sing, and the others, too. I eavesdropped, sometimes, when you guys thought I wasn’t listening.” It’s partly true. Hearing the name passed around from mouth to mouth in the gang—it brought up memories, things single-digit me heard and promptly forgot about. 

“Very astute.” He chuckles lightly, a lonely sound reverberating between us. “You’re so much like him.”

“Like dad?”

“Yeah.” I feel him nod against the back of my neck.

I turn over, tangling myself in the untucked mess of my bed, to face otosan. His dark eyes shine brightly. “They tell me I’m like you, too. All the time.”

He smiles. “What? Stubbornness and fierce loyalty? Those things could get you in trouble if you aren’t careful.”

“They’re good qualities to have.”

“Maybe…” Silence. “If you really wanna know about your father, I’m sorry, but you’ll have to ask him. It’s not my story to tell.”

That’s what I was afraid of. That I’ll forever live with hands clamped on my ears and two fingers holding onto my tongue. That I’ll be forced to live a perfectly ignorant life, happy and go-lucky and pretending a dreadful past doesn’t exist in order to move forward free of bumps or hurdles. Coexisting in a fractured family.

“Why does he wanna keep it so secret, anyway?”

The lines around otosan’s face—the laugh lines and forehead creases, the places where you know a person lived a full and prosperous life—speak a profound sadness. Like the anecdotes they could tell are not for the faint of heart. Like they appeared far earlier than they should have because stress and smiles could not share the same sentence. 

He says to me, “Because he’s ashamed.” 

One room over, the screaming begins again.

**ii. _(Territory Soundtrack)_**

_ Present time _

Do adults still talk over each other in sentences or is it just us kids pretending to be older than we are? Never have I been so irritated in leading a discussion (well, I suppose I’ve never actually lead a discussion before that wasn’t for a dumb school project). Regardless, sitting here makes me wish I had a bowl of popcorn to munch on as I wait for things to play out. Clearly, nobody wants to listen to me in favor of arguing over this and that.

I’ve considered leaving and coming back just to test if they’d even notice I was gone. 

Apparently, ‘leader’ means jack-shit when you can’t act like one.

Just then, someone slams their hands upon the table, rattling the contents and our hearts. “Hey, fuckers! Shut the fuck up for a minute, will ya?” Frankie shouts, exasperated and crazed. “Your fuckin’ squabbling is louder than any gunfire I’ve ever heard!” She gesticulates toward the walls. “They could be out there right now and we’d all be dead in five seconds flat!”

Justin might have ruled with charm, but Frankie commands respect through sheer force of will and mother-like exhaustion. All snappy retorts from a sailor’s mouth one minute and carefree psychosis the next. I think she’s a Gemini. The room quiets at her complaints and I breathe a sigh of relief, slumped over in my chair and drumming my fingers on the metal.

She claps her hands together. “‘Mitsu’. It’s the name Nora and I heard the other day.” I nod in acquiescence toward the eyes that wander to my form at the sound of my name. “We have reason to believe they are the boss of sorts, but we ain’t got no other information.” She turns toward the overworked twins diligently typing away at their laptops. “Sleuth. Moss.” They hum in acknowledgment, though their eyes stay glued to the blue glow of their screen, eyes rapidly shifting and twitching. “Find out what you can. Give us something to work with here.”

My turn. I sit up, clearing my throat, revealing, “They’ve got ties to the mafia, too. We don’t know what mafia, but it doesn’t seem to be one well-known around here. They’re the ones who shot up one of our hold a few weeks ago.”

“Great, we’re fightin’ the fuckin’ mob now?” Someone complains, though I cut them off before people can start to agree.

“The good news is they’re only hired guns, as far as I’ve discovered.”

“And how did you discover this?” Frankie questions, one threaded eyebrow raising.

I shrug, replying enigmatically, “I’ve got semi-reliable sources. And that source has mentioned a group of kids smuggling and selling drugs in Chinatown territory.”

Frankie smiles, our first plan of action finally forming. “Screw with their hustlin’ and suddenly they ain’t got no more money to spend on spiffy suits and machine guns. Good work.” We let this moment of congenitally pass over us. “What about hideouts, holdfasts, dingy fuckin’ places these rats are spawnin’ from? Anybody got anything on that?”

A collective chorus of “no” rises up around us and most shake their heads while others shrug silently. It’s irritating not knowing where this fucking group is while they seem to know our every move before we do. It’s like they’ve got spies everywhere, on every fucking window ledge and peeking through the splinters and cracks… I should speak to Frankie alone about moles. I don’t have a single piece of evidence to prove one of our own is giving intel to the enemy, but it doesn’t hurt to be cautious until then.

Another thing, however. “We need help,” I challenge, waiting until every eye in the room is on me. “Black Sabbath and Chinatown—the other two strongest gangs of Manhattan. We’ve worked together in the past. I’m sure they’ve heard about Justin.” Heads lower and prayers float above us. “This is a threat to all of us, they’ve got no reason not to.”

“Black Sabbath should be easy to persuade,” Frankie responds, thinking it over, “but I’m not so sure about China...town…” Confused and slightly concerned, I watch her crystal eyes light up in realization. That’s her scheming face. “Take Willard with you and talk it out with ‘em.”

I frown. “Why me?”

“You suggested it. And also because Chinatown might be more convinced by someone named ‘Lynx’ rather than anybody else.” She brushes me aside, clearly intending for me to leave right at this moment. “Good luck!”

All those years of complex powerpoints and casefiles to convince my fathers to do things might come in handy now. Except, I don’t suppose I’d look very cool pulling up Google Slides on my phone or using my cuteness to win them over if they’re still on the fence. The name ‘Lynx’ holds many powers, though, so I guess we’ll discover a new one today.

Scanning the front, I find Willard and all six-foot-whatever of him chugging a beer with his friends. I call his name, nod at him toward the entrance. It’s hot outside as I wait for him, leaving against the brick and watching the world pass by. I didn’t bring a hair tie with me and I can already feel the yellow strands stick to the back of my neck. Bending down, I cuff the ends of my jeans for some semblance of fresh air for my suffocating legs. 

An orange soda slides into my field of vision and the arm connected to it belongs to Willard, finally. Taking the proffered can with a mumbled thanks, I remember Willard’s rather depressing arrival a couple of months ago. Stumbled into our bar covered in snow and freezing his ass off, clearly homeless and looking nearly on the brink of death. Spilled his whole life story through chattering teeth, though nobody ever asks where you come from. An unspoken rule; people like to keep their pasts private. 

Said his mom died of cancer and his dad, cursed with an addiction to whiskey, couldn’t afford shit after all the treatment. So, this high school wrestling star left home and nobody ever went looking for him. Wandered the streets for weeks before taking refuge in our bar and, damn, was he lucky to find it chock-full of kids just like him. 

I really like Willard, he’s very polite. And intimidating when you need him to be, but he’s also one of the few I can gush over reading with because none of them other kids ever bothered to learn. He’s got a lot of interesting thoughts in that big head of his, all philosophical-like. Told me his favorite subject in school was English and that’s when I decided Willard was one of a kind. 

I’m about to take a sip of the carbonated sweetness when a tiny form blocks my walking path. “Nora!”

“Ally,” I greet, eyeballing her perfect blonde curls and sparkling blue eyes in contrast to the boy’s clothes she steals from her foster brother, “what can I for you?”

She’s got a mole on her upper lip like Marilyn Monroe that curls with her plump lips. She could be a real model in the future with looks like that. “Actually, it’s ‘what can I do for you?’” Although, I don’t think that snarky attitude would get her very far. “I’m here to offer my services. Ya know, a young, innocent child lost in the streets of New York. Some poor soul offers their help and, between the puffy eyes and sniffles, I reach in to snatch wads of cash, credit cards, jewelry.”

I laugh, amused with her vocabulary and grandiose storytelling. I always wanted a sister like Ally; someone tough and independent, a real smartass at times. I think we would be the perfect sibling pair to drive our parents into the ground. 

“I don’t need any pickpocketing done today, thanks.”

She stole what little allowance I was given a long time ago and I chased her down for so long until my stamina eventually won out and she’d cornered herself, horribly out of breath. We became friends, but she’s in the foster system and I don’t see her for large spans of time sometimes. Then, some random day, she’ll be bouncing through the streets like we never even missed each other. 

She pouts so adorably and I’m reminded of why people keep falling in her trap. “Anything else I can do? I’m bored. Preferably something to do with these new guys kicking your asses.”

Startled, I ask, “How the hell you know about that?”

She shrugs, little shoulders moving beneath her baggy shirt. “The news.” Cheekily, she adds, “And I was listening through the door while you guys were talking.”

I roll my infamous pine trees, the dark green depths, unsurprised. Part of me is worried about involving her in this shit, wondering if I should tell her to go home and stay safe. But, even if I did, she’s like me and would sneak around anyway.

“Go ask Frankie, then. I got my own shit to do.” She bounds away, happy and content. “And stay safe!” She gives a half-hearted thumbs up before disappearing down the stairs. 

**iii.** **_(Bemused Soundtrack)_ **

_ Later that day _

Walking around Harlem, we get a lot of looks. Apparently, they don’t take too kindly to a couple of white kids of another gang walking around their turf. Speaking of, this is actually my first time ever interacting with Black Sabbath. Each gang has their own thing and up here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many kids with guns before. And they don’t even try to hide that shit, either. All tucked into waistbands and holsters for all to see. Ballsy… I like it. 

This isn’t like before, walking around aimlessly or asking around, only to be mocked, laughed at, brushed aside. I know exactly where to go. Their home base is a bar just like ours, though it’s brightly lit with a neon open sign and a flickering name. The windows are grated and littered with bullet holes they’ve never bothered to fix. 

As soon as I push open the heavy metal door, all conversation ceases. All eyes turn to Willard and me. All hands reach back and around, wary. My hands go up in surrender, and I placate, “Just hear to speak with Stevie, is all.”

“You walked right past her.”

From behind me comes a deep, raspy kind of voice with a lilt of ego and surplus confidence. Turning around, Stevie’s a lot taller and a lot more muscular than I pictured her to be. Everything about her is loud. A black sheer shirt, red plaid pants, and combat boots—all of it’s aesthetically tied together with those long, silver-dyed dreads. The right side of her head is shaved, too, and now I think I know what gay panic means. 

Attempting a facade of cool collection, I hold out a hand. “Nora Lynx.” 

She takes it with a firm grip and the sharpest nails I’ve ever seen.

“Heard all about you, Lynx,” she says, smiling with matte lips and blackmail. 

“All good things, I hope.” I gesture toward the boy standing awkwardly next to me. “This is Willard.”

They shake quickly and quietly, mannerly. Then, Stevie says, “Heard about your boy, Justin. He was a good one.” We mumble out rough thank you’s. “But you’re here about them kids, right? The ones shootin’ up our city?”

We follow her in to sit in a lounge area with leather couches and a table littered with pornos and ashtrays where she kicks out a few lingering stares and open ears. I explain our plight, the threats endangering us all, and plead our case. It doesn’t take much, Stevie must have already been on our side to begin with. Explains her irritation at “assholes always wantin’ to boost their egos,'' cracks her knuckles, and gives us her word. Her men are our men. 

Chinatown is familiar. Nadia works at her restaurant, living above it with Charlie, and they’ve hosted many gatherings over the years. In fact, she cooked my dads a huge meal a few months ago for their sixteenth wedding anniversary. Sing and Akira also live over here, but I haven’t been to their new place, yet. Everybody’s always coming over to our house, we never go to anybody else’s. Otosan likes hosting far too much for living with two introverts. 

But things between our gang and them have been...not good. At some point over the years, a falling out occurred and our relationship has been fractured ever since. I wasn’t there for it. Justin wasn’t even there for it. As far I know, our distance is tense and full of loathing. Respectably terse. However, they’re thriving with a fearsome leader and we won’t be able to intervene in the drug-smuggling without her permission. 

Justin once told me that, if I ever needed something from Chinatown, all I had to do was walk a bit and they’d find me. Ominous, but effective and true. There’s a lot of Asians in my family, but I can’t say I’ve ever been surrounded by as many as I am right now. And they’re all glaring at me, too. 

Willard and I glance nervously at each other before the circle parts for Xuan Vi, leader of Chinatown. Everybody’s heard her name. Her exploits are nearly as infamous as my father. People like to joke that she's a former Yakuza, not knowing that’s a Japanese thing. She’s actually Vietnamese. It’s the one thing she cares for anyone to remember about her. 

Getting a good, steady look at her right now makes me instantly afraid of pissing her off. Tall, lean, a hardened face with sharp features and angular eyebrows. She stalks with perfect posture, covered head-to-toe in black, form-fitting clothing. Her knee-high boots click on the concrete, echoing throughout the space like time-stamps for our subsequent demise. Despite the wind, her bangs stay absolutely still, but the sleek, black hair pulled up high swishes behind her. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of Nora Lynx invading my territory?”

All business, no chide remarks or casual conversation. I can do that.

“A new gang’s trying to take over. We’d like your help.” Straight to the point.

“I fail to see how that affects us. We can handle ourselves just fine.”

It unnerves me how none of her men move a single muscle with their weapons all pointed toward us. Ready, aimed, waiting for her single and not a moment more. These people could be powerful allies. 

“They’re smuggling drugs here,” I urge, hoping this piece of information is of some use to them.

Her face remains placid, unperturbed. “And how’d you come about that?”

“Yut-Lung.”

There. The slightest furrow in her brows. It seems Xuan Vi does have some emotion. I think I know exactly where to hit now. “We no longer have ties with the Lee Family.”

“Do you still have ties with Shorter Wong? Or Sing Soo-Ling?”

It’s dead silent. Not even the breeze whistles past. It’s more deafening than if she’d simply shouted at me.

“I know who you are, Lynx. I know your past, where you truly come from. Talk with me, just us two. Convince me.” 

There’s always someone who knows more than you want them to. I just hope Willard doesn’t think about those words too hard. She turns away, expecting me to follow. I do.

**iv. _(Bemused Soundtrack cont.)_**

_ Later that evening _

We reconvene with drinks in hand and a cloud of smoke around our heads. Sleuth and Moss relay their intel, Willard and I part ways, and Frankie looks impressed that I’ve managed to ally ourselves with both Black Sabbath and Chinatown. I’m living dad’s old life more and more these days. The parallels are frighteningly obvious.


	6. The Lord of the Flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait. My laptop broke and I had to buy a new one.

“I'm the Beast ... You knew, didn't you? I'm part of you?” -William Golding,  _ The Lord of the Flies _

* * *

**i. _(Today’s Savages Soundtrack)_**

_ Two years earlier _

Dad never taught me to shoot. I wonder if he would have suffered a heart attack at how quickly I’ve managed to master the skill. Maybe master is a bit pretentious. I kind of just point steadily and pull the trigger...I haven’t been much wrong in my aim, yet. Justin claims I’m a natural. Aslan, Ash...would their reactions differ?

The weight was strange, at first. Heavy in my hand and difficult to hold without spraining my wrist. It didn’t much matter, though, once I discovered my impeccable ability for bulls-eyes. Because, admittedly, at that point, I was just excited to show off for the gang. I didn’t enjoy the spotlight searing my skin, but after the bar fight, I figured I might as well live up to my growing reputation. 

Some of the younger kids like to sit and watch my practices.  _ Ooohing and aaahing  _ with each bullet flying amid ricocheting debris. I was amazed at their placidity, honestly. Their posture would equal that of hunchback grandparents, but their faces would remain flinchless after each bang and pop reverberating through the air. Even I still cringe at the ringing leftover in my ears, though it’s getting better. 

It feels nice to be good at something that matters. However, I imagine a moving, breathing, bleeding target with intent to kill feels much different. Will I be able to pull the trigger when it actually matters? Saying and doing are two different things. I’m hardly battle-hardened like the rest of them. 

Still...imagine how invincible I could be.

_ BANG!  _ The bullet cracks through the air like a whip, echoing off the buildings and concrete and carrying for miles. I don’t flinch this time. I lower the semi-automatic, hands loosening around the handle, though I keep both grips in case Justin instructs me to do it again. My vision focuses and I see the hole slightly left-center of the forehead. Not perfect, but dead either way.

Justin whistles lowly, impressed. “A damn good shot, Nora.” He sniffs, rolling a loose pebble beneath his sneaker. “Ash Lynx was a damn good shot, too.”

My face falls, my good mood ruined. “Yeah,” I grumble, biting my cheek, “so everybody keeps reminding me.” A strand of sparkling blond hair catches in my mouth and I reach to pull it free. 

“You’re a lot like him.”

“I know!” I don’t mean to shout, but the frustration bubbles over into my words. “Everybody tells me that, too!”

He raises one thick eyebrow. “It’s uncanny. You even look like him.”

_ An unfortunate coincidence,  _ I think. The highlight of my childhood and now the bane of my existence. “Well, I was adopted, so. Pretty sure my parents were young immigrants.” I’m surprised with myself. A small, truthful tidbit of information, but the most I’ve spilled of my past to anyone. 

Justin simply nods, holding out a hand for his handgun back. I give it over, unsure of myself or my standing. He isn’t a bad guy. Hardly even scary unless you seriously piss him off, which rarely happens. Genial and charismatic–I don’t fear his wrath as much as I fear his disappointment. Would it be a disappointment for him to know I’ve been lying this whole time?

I’m sure Ash Lynx is Aslan Callenreese. Ninety-nine percent positive, with the other one percent merely my desire for a full-fledged confirmation from my father. Which I will not get unless I push. I already got one from otosan, but dad hides so much behind his glassy green eyes and I know I’ll only be scratching the surface.   
I just want to know how these kids managed to figure it out without figuring it out before I did.

“You should call yourself ‘Lynx’.”

My head swivels toward Justin, astonished. I’m undeserving. “Just ‘Lynx’?”

He shakes no. “‘Nora Lynx’. A pseudonym, like its predecessor.” Silence spreads between us. I don’t know how to respond. I’m stuck mulling over the suggestion in my mind, turning it this way and that like a Rubik’s Cube to be solved. “Keep the legend alive, ya know? They all call you it, anyway. Claim you’re a reincarnation or some shit.” He eyes me up and down, a knowing glint in his hazel eyes. “Maybe you are.”

I don’t believe it. I emulate my dad in many ways, but that man is no longer ‘Ash Lynx’ and I know they’ve both tried their hardest to keep him away from me. How could I possibly be like someone I’ve never even met? Ash is a two-way mirror and I’m just...me. When I look my dad in the eyes tonight, who will I see? 

We walk back to the bar side by side in contemplative silence until Justin breaks it by saying, “ A Smith & Wesson Model 27.” 

“Huh?” Sounds like a bunch of jargon I don’t understand. 

Hands in his pockets, all nonchalant and keeping his gaze forward, he replies, “It’s a revolver. Consider getting yourself one.”

I look at his profile, shaded by the sun in light and darkness. I have to squint. “Why?”

He only shrugs, bumping his shoulder with mine so I don’t pass the stairway covered in litter. “It’s a good gun.”

I don’t know why I bothered, really. It’s taken me one whole month of deep searching, of browsing until page fifty, of speaking with the lowest of the low sellers. I’ve finally found the exact damn model Justin said. And it was fucking expensive, too. It only holds six bullets at a time and that’s mildly inconvenient compared to the automatics I’ve been borrowing. 

But I like the fact I own my own piece now. It’s almost like this gun owns me, not the other way around. Like I was destined for this make and model. It fits firmly in my grip and my hands are the steadiest they’ve ever been. She cracks satisfyingly, but I’ve only practiced once. I don’t want to waste bullets. Part of me wants to hang it up on the wall and never touch it again. Simply gaze at it nostalgically even though there’s no past between us.

It rests comfortably in the waistband of my jeans, hidden by jackets or t-shirts. I don’t take it home, though. I’m far too afraid of my parents finding it. They’d kill me. Well, they’d lecture me about gun safety first and then kill me. Justin takes care of it in my absence. 

When I’m out like now, I walk proudly and bravely, thinking nobody can touch me because I’ve got protection and skill. I shouldn’t be so arrogant, it’s not a good look on me. Getting myself trapped in an alley is the dumbest thing I’ve done so far. 

Guns don’t work so well you’ve got multiple targets blocking either exit and closing in fast until any one of them can simply pry the useless piece of metal from your hand. At least, there’s less than six. I do have that. If ever a time to not miss was important…

I don’t recognize these kids. And gangs of the different boroughs never interact. Sounds like I’ve found myself messing with the one causing trouble for Justin and the others the past few years. The very one responsible for Benny. 

Anger surges through me, volatile and red-hot, pricking the tips of my fingers. Three behind and two ahead. Despite the area, people still report gunshots. I have to make this quick before the cops show. If I’m not dead or bleeding out, that is.

They’re saying things; taunting me or threatening me. I can’t hear them. White noise clogs my ears. Like a seashell, the sound of the blooding rushing through you is magnified. I can’t exact my revenge on the same men who tortured Benny, but they’re all the same, right? Same intentions, same stupid, fucking, cocky smiles, same leader issuing this ceaseless violence. It’ll have to be enough.

I don’t think. I just do.

Spinning on my heel, sliding on the rocks and dirt, my hand reaches behind and cocks my revolver before I’ve even properly aimed. Two seconds of measured breathing pass and I pull the trigger. The middle one drops dead, blood oozing from his gouged eye socket. The other two stop, hesitate, sharing horrified looks with each other and the fresh corpse. It’s enough of a moment for me to spin again and repeat. 

They turn tail and run before the second body thumps to the ground, a hole having crushed her nose. I turn tail and run, too. Booking it down side-streets and parking lots. Eventually, I’m forced to stop because I’m afraid my heart might genuinely pop inside my chest. 

I can’t breathe. Almost like there’s a blockage in my trachea, preventing the release of my lungs. And hearts surely aren’t supposed to beat this fast. Or bodies this cold...unless they’re dead. Oh...God. What did I do? I just  _ killed  _ someone. Two someones! I didn’t even hesitate. My mind went blind with rage and I committed second-degree murder.

They went down so easy. So quickly. A snap of my fingers and their eyes suddenly held no life.  _ I did that.  _ No struggle or anything. 

I–

I don’t–

I can’t–

I don’t think I can bear to look my dad in the face. He’d disown me.

**ii. _(Obscure Soundtrack)_**

_ Present time _

With the help of Sleuth and Moss’s intel, as well as the alliance of Black Sabbath and Chinatown, we’ve set a solid plan into motion. Attacking hideouts and strongholds, places we’ve heard word of squatters frequenting, places even we no longer use. It’s tedious work and, after a while, it’s beginning to feel like we’re barely making a dent. They’re like fucking mice, they just keep multiplying out of nowhere. 

Places we clear out are full the next day. Mitsu’s men are expendable, apparently. Speaking of, we’ve had no word or sighting of Mitsu as of yet. Just vague references and a few uttered phrases followed by scoldings or beatings. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mitsu isn’t even a real person at all, just a fucking figurehead like Big Brother to keep their people in check and fearful. 

It concerns me that there might possibly be someone out there controlling the whole scheme without lifting a damn finger. That means they have power. And power means they’ll be difficult to reach. We’ve put Mitsue on the backburner for now. No use in exhausting our resources only to end up with the same answers.

The mafia has gone incognito, as well. I don’t expect them to stick around hanging with bum children, but we haven’t encountered them once in all of our offensive strategies. Makes me figure they’ve got specific orders for specific efforts. Muscle and gun power in mass executions and nothing more. Perhaps Mitsu couldn’t afford the protection. Or persuade. Either way, they aren’t around to stop us and it’s the one thing I’m not worried about.

Black Sabbath and Chinatown have been dealing with their own shit. We haven’t convened, yet. Frankie thinks it’s too risky for all the gangs to meet in one place right now. So, we’ve got lines constantly flooding with information from either side, an influx of monotone readings and the same old clean-up. Boring, but necessary.

Xuan Vi reluctantly allowed us unimpeded access to her territory in order to deal with the drug deals. There was a lot more than we expected. Rapidly changing drop-off/pick-up sites, truckloads of hard shit, piles of cash just for the kids making these runs. Mitsue must be making bank with the duffle bags they carry off.

Us field kids split off into groups for reconnaissance before making our move. They’ll find quieter, better places to keep the cash rolling in, but I suppose it’s a start for now. Or a message, if anything, that we have resources, too. Makes me think we’re all just waiting for something big to happen. As if Justin and the others weren't enough.

I hate this waiting. Despise it. Mitsu has us tumbling around the court until the ball is passed. Everything is on their terms, just how they want, and that’s incredibly dangerous for all of us. 

These kids, the ones enraptured with my name and my looks and my prowess, keep coming to me for answers. I have none. I can’t tell them that, though. And I can’t be as scared as they are. I have to be strong and invincible, stoney and weight-bearing, resistant. A shield and a weapon. Peacemaker and fighter. But I can’t be anybody other than Lynx. Sometimes, not even Nora.

At the end of the day, we count our losses and I hold back my tears for the fallen until I get home to my room beneath my covers. Muffle my cries into my pillow. My screams of frustration. My exhausted shouts because I haven’t slept a full night in weeks and the nightmares are aggravatingly repetitive. My mind likes to play them on a loop; reminding me of who I was, who I am, who I’m becoming. She smiles less and less. Paler, skinnier, more haggard.

Bored when she kills, like the act is just a chore. Expressionless when friends are reaching out for a hand to hold in their final moments. Restless because she itches for action. And inside her mind is a ravaging war against herself. 

**iii.** **_(Prisoner Soundtrack)_ **

_ A few weeks later _

“Enora, what the fuck?”

An appropriate reaction, I suppose, to seeing your girlfriend bathed in blood at your doorstep unannounced. 

“It’s not my blood.”

She pulls me in, muttering something about her neighbors finally calling the cops on us. I didn’t think about that part. After today, all I wanted was peace and quiet. Comfort. Somewhere I could be me and no one else. Somewhere I could cry openly and loudly, sobbing my grievances into the stale air. 

She checks me over for injuries anyway, watching the way I tense and hiss when hands wander over bruises, old and new. Satisfied, as much as she can be, she tosses me a bag of freezer-burned vegetables for my hip.

I toss them back, saying, “Let me take a shower first.”

She nods, sadly, upset. “I’ll take your clothes down to the laundromat later. Borrow whatever you want.”

I turn the knob as far as it can go, relishing in the scalding heat washing me clean. Pink water swirls down into the drain, mixed with dirt and debris. It takes me a long time to wash the clumps from my hair and even longer to brush them out. The bristles are so full of split ends and entire strands that I shouldn’t have any hair left. 

I’m rifling through Raven’s dresser when her voice sounds from behind me, “I know I convinced you to go after these guys, but I worry for you.”

I turn, holding the ends of my towel together in one hand and a random shirt in the other. “I’m being careful.”

She looks me up and down, scrutinizing me. Her face contorts with doubt. “I’m supposed to believe that when you come knocking at my door literally covered in blood?”

“I told you it wasn’t mine.” I can’t help but roll my eyes. So much for no judgment.

“Stop that. You’re not dense. You know that doesn’t matter.” Warm hands are suddenly cupping my reddening cheeks. “I know you can handle yourself physically, but you suck ass at the mental part.” The way she says it, like she was going to say something sweet and endearing only to roast me in the end. 

I yank my face away, annoyed. “I do not.”

And tan arms yank me back into an embrace. “Yes, you do.” Her lips tickle the shell of my ear, the bare, prickled skin of my shoulder. “You keep your shit bottled up inside, but it never fucking explodes. It just trickles down the side until you’re empty, hoping nobody’s noticed.” Kisses press lovingly along my back. Hands skim down my arms. “I’ve noticed.” A forehead sets itself just under my hairline. “Are you okay?”

Tears well up in my eyes. “No,” I answer, voice cracking with just the one syllable.

Nobody has ever truly asked me that before. Comrades in the heat of the moment because I’ve got a huge slash in my arm because Nora Lynx is their backbone. My dads because they learned and practiced the importance, but neither of them asks because of a direct correlation. And I can lie easily. It doesn’t feel good, but I can do it.

Lie so I can work harder, faster, more recklessly. Some of my biggest achievements happened because I made an impulsive decision blinded by my intractable, tumultuous emotions. If people knew, they’d stop me. Try to keep me from a short life, a swifter sentence. I fear death like most people, but it’s easy to ignore with a one-track mind like mine. The idea of dying tonight or tomorrow or the next day just doesn’t seem real unless I...really...think about it.

The possibility still exists in increasing probability.

“Hey, Raven?”

“Hm?”

“You wanna fuck?”

A pause. Her head raises and she walks around to face me properly. “Yes and no.”

What? “The fuck does that mean?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve wanted to fuck you for a really long time, but I’m not sure you’re in the right state of mind.”

I give her the same look she’d given me earlier. “I’m not mentally insane.” And sigh because this is not how I’d imagined our first time would go. “Look, I could die tomorrow and I’ve decided I don’t want to be a virgin when that happens.”

Raven’s brows furrow beneath her bangs. “I think there’s a lot more you’re not telling me–”  
“Oh my God, please just fucking kiss me.”

My towel drops when I twine my arms around her neck and we stumble our way to her bed with frenzied kisses and gasps. 

**iv. _(Tears of the Lynx Soundtrack)_**

_ Next morning _

I bust my ass trying to make it home. Waking up with my face squished into my girlfriend’s bare boobs was immaculate. Until I reached across her for my phone and saw the time said six forty-two. Therefore, I don’t know why I bother with any pace other than a leisurely stroll because I’m already dead. 

I’ve barely opened the door an inch before, “Enora Pine, where the hell have you been?”

And, also, “Not a call. Not a text. Not a damn word! That is unacceptable!”

Dad and otosan, respectively.

My head lowers in shame. “I’m sorry,” I say, knowing there’s no fighting them, “I should’ve let you guys know where I was and I didn’t.”

Otosan is rarely angry with me, typically playing peacekeeper between dad and I. I know I’ve fucked up this time. They’re staring me down into the floor and, honestly, they aren’t wrong to do so. I genuinely forgot because of...reasons, but that’s not a valid excuse. Especially to dad.

“You’re grounded.”

That’s fair.

“Well…”

Dad and I simultaneously turn toward otosan, gawking. He is not about to argue, is he? Dad looks absolutely ready to blow a fuse. I can tell because he always removes his glasses before screaming; the calm before the storm. I think I’ll sit this one out, watch from the sidelines.

“Well, what?” he asks, daring his husband to disagree. Poor dad thinking he’d have a formidable ally this time.

Otosan challenges him with a steady, firm gaze. “I don’t think she needs to be grounded.”

Dad, eerily calm save for a twitching eyebrow, replies, “She was out all day and all night and told us nothing. And you think she doesn’t need to be grounded?”

“It isn’t even eight, yet. And she apologized like a mature adult.”

“So she doesn’t need to be punished? She can just say sorry, earn our forgiveness, and do it all over again?”

It’s like a tennis match. My eyes bouncing back and forth between my fathers, a bead of sweat dripping down my temple. Obviously, I’m rooting for otosan, but it’s interesting watching how he always manages to bring dad around to agreement. Dad is dramatic, hot-headed, and prone to irrationality when triggered, but he can typically be won over if you argue your case well enough. 

Annoyingly, it doesn’t work because I’m his kid daughter and children don’t matter even if they are intelligent. But I’ve seen other people do it and I hold a lot of respect for their bravery. None more so than otosan having been with the man for almost thirty years. 

“She is almost eighteen. I don’t believe she needs to tell us where she is or who she is with at all hours and neither should you. She deserves some privacy. She’s never given us a reason to doubt her.” Internally, I cringe at that statement. I have and I do, otosan, you just aren’t aware of it, yet. “If you ground her, she’s just going to sneak out. That’s what we used to do.”

Valid points have been made. How are you going to respond, dad? Rationally, I would prefer.

“Did you not see her last time this happened? Bleeding from not one, but two wounds and having done a shit job at bandaging them?”

The bruises beneath my clothes suddenly itch and ache. Still, this is ridiculous. “I’m not gonna get beat up every single time I’m out,” I say, exasperated. 

I can visibly see him trying not to shout. Taking in a deep breath and shakily releasing it. Composing himself before turning to me because how dare his family question him on this? “How would I know when you never tell me what you’re doing?”

I’m done. I don’t have the energy to argue in circles. To plead or rationalize with him. To him I’ll forever be that shy six-year-old girl playing by herself in the corner.

I tell him, “To me, that sounds less like you care and more like you just don’t trust me.”

“I do care!” Here we go. Otosan tries to intervene and we don’t listen. I’m so damn sick of this. “I just don’t want you to get hurt or be scared and alone or make a mistake–”

“Like run away from home at eight-years-old only to picked up by sex-traffickers?”

Dead silence. I don’t register my words until the sentence has been shouted with disdain and judgment. I can’t believe I’ve just said that. 

Dad...he looks as if I’ve just struck him with my own hand. I have. 

“That was uncalled for,” otosan reprimands, though his voice sounds far away amid the pounding in my ears.

Backing up, I realize I never actually shut the door. It’s been ajar this whole time. Did our neighbors hear that? Hear the words I can never take back? Dad is shocked, hurt. His anger evaporated into thin air. It’s so much worse. I did that. I caused that. Now he thinks his own daughter judges him for his childhood. 

I don’t, I swear I don’t! I know it was never your fault. I would never blame you. I was just angry, see? Sometimes we say things we don’t really mean. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t. I’m sorry.

None of those words leave my mouth. I don’t think I’m capable of using it right now. Instead, I panic before sprinting out the door. I’m too ashamed to be around them.

**v. _(Tears of the Lynx Soundtrack cont.)_**

_ Later that day _

I shouldn’t be nursing my sorrows with refills of beer, yet here I am. Drinking this stale shit one after another. I’ve got nothing else to do other than ruminating and wallowing in my shame and guilt. Seems I keep making mistakes lately, just like dad was saying. Enora, Nora—neither one is worth a sack of shit, so where the fuck do I belong?

After a while, the alcohol hits and now I’m just sad and drunk. Staring a hole into the bar’s countertop surrounded by bottles and caps. Someone taps me on the shoulder, but I shrug them off grumpily without a glance. They tap again, more incessantly.

“Argh, what?” I snap, turning. Frankie stands there, looking her usual self except the frown wrinkling her features and disconsolate eyes. “What?” I say, much softer and more concerned.

“Ally,” she replies, struggling to look me in the eye. No. No. Not her. “She’s dead.”

I feel the world spinning, my life spiraling out of control. 

I...I sent her out there. She just wanted to help and I just let her…

“It wasn’t because of us,” Frankie interrupts, and I look up in blurry confusion. “Her foster mom. Murdered her. On accident, in a fit of rage, but...ya know. Reports said she was raped, too.”

I can’t think right now. I don’t want to think right now.

“Leave me.”

Frankie, thank fucking God, listens and I snatch a bottle of something strong and heavy before heading to the back room and locking the door. Then, I take a big swig through choking sobs, fall to my knees, and promptly break down.

**Author's Note:**

> Support my ko-fi if you enjoyed my writing! https://ko-fi.com/bounteous


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